


For Only a Few Weeks

by zombie_socks



Series: Island of Misfit Boys [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Clint's a Kid, Foster Care, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of past child abuse, Nightmares, Phil's a good dad, Seizures, comics love orphans, deaf!Clint, description of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson lost his wife and son in a car accident less than a year ago. He's still struggling with moving on when Maria Hill at the west-side office calls and asks him to take a case, promising it will only be for a few weeks. He agrees and ends up taking care of a scrawny boy with cracked hearing aids who is as untrusting of him as they come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,   
> This was my summer project and I'm finally getting around to posting it.   
> It and it's counterpart are completed, but I'm toying around with a part three.   
> I'll be posting on Sundays, 2 chapters at a time.   
> Enjoy!

Coulson sat at his desk and stared at the stack of paperwork that had accumulated on it as if he believed glaring the documents down would get it done without him having to actually do it. He didn’t mind paperwork – he had way too damn much of it to do in his job for him to mind it – but he’d already done so much today, his hand hurt and his brain was numb. Taking in a deep breath and blowing it out in a sigh of contempt, he grabbed the form on top of the stack and went to work on it.

No sooner had the first few lines been filled when his salvation came in the form of the ringing phone on his desk. He picked it up a little eagerly and answered, “Counselor’s office, Coulson speaking.”

“Phil, thank God you’re still there.”

The social worker smiled lightly at the frustrated and relieved tone of his fellow caseworker’s voice. “I’m always here, Maria. You need something?”

“Yes, Phil. I’m on a case and it’s gotten messy. The kid got into some trouble and is in Juvie, but no one bothered to follow up with his younger brother. So I went to take a look and he’s at the Renow Home for Boys over in Clay County, and, My God, Coulson, this place needs to be shut down immediately. I’m in the process of redistributing the boys to other foster homes, but the brother is technically classified as special needs. He’s deaf, but not completely, hearing aids. Any way, it would only be for a few weeks, just until I could find him a place. And-”

“What would only be a few weeks, Maria?”

“Oh, shit, Sorry. I need you to watch him.”

“Maria.”

“Phil, I’ve already got two boys at my place and I know you said you weren’t going to take in any more kids after losing Audrey and Jude last winter but I _need_ your help. I promise it’s only for a few weeks. Please, Coulson.”

Phil sighed deeply, casting a look over to the picture of a beautiful woman hugging a seven-year-old boy that remained on his desk even though he often faced it downward because it was too painful to look at most days. Shaking his head he answered, “Okay, Maria. But only until you find him somewhere to go.”

“Oh, thank you, Phil! I owe you one. Um, can you meet me at the west branch office in thirty minutes?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you thank you thank you, Phil.” And with that she hung up.

Coulson leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair and sighing. What did he just do? He glanced again at the family that he no longer had. It had been a little less than a year since that night. He could still feel the rain coming in from the smashed windshield before his eyes closed and he woke up all alone in the hospital, a scar on his chest over his heart from there they’d had to open him up to remove glass and shrapnel from the mutilated car. He’d been the only one to survive. Audrey had died on the scene and Jude didn’t even make it through the ride over to the hospital. All that Phil had been left with was a damaged, empty heart.

He got up, stuffing the rest of his papers into a folder, grabbed his keys, and turned out the light as he left his office to go meet the boy Maria Hill was bringing him.

 

The sun was going down as Phil Coulson waited, leaning up against the front of his car, for Maria to roll in. Thirty minutes to the dot from when she’d hung up she pulled into the parking lot beside him.

“Right on time,” Phil remarked. Maria just lifted a shoulder and got out, motioning to the kid in the seat behind her to get out as well. He obeyed, hopping down from the SUV, a ratty backpack in tow behind him.

“Phil this is Clint Barton, Clint, this is Phil. He’s going to be looking after you until I can find a foster home that can take you. Okay?”

The boy just looked down at his shoes and nodded out of habit.

“Okay,” Maria went on. She handed Phil a file that had the kid’s name on it. “That’s all you should need to know and all the paperwork for you being his temporary. If you can, get it filled out and in my office by Monday.”

Phil nodded but added a “Sure thing” in there so she didn’t make a comment about how well the kid and he would bond with their similar communication method.

“If there’re any problems, don’t hesitate to call.” She went to pat the kid on the shoulder but aborted the action midway and instead moved back to her car. “Thanks again, Phil,” she called out before starting the engine and taking off.

Coulson looked the kid over for a moment. He was small, scrawny, with wild sandy blonde hair. His shoes were riddled with so many holes they barely counted as footwear, and his threadbare clothes looked to be in danger of dissolving if they went through one more load of wash. His backpack, a grey-purple canvas, was dusty and one black strap was threatening to let go. The plastic of his hearing aids was visible behind his ears and one of them had a small crack in it. The kid looked pitiful and it pulled on Phil’s damaged heart.

“Okay, kid. Let’s go.” And with that he led the child over to the car, all the way home thinking over what had he just agreed to.


	2. Chapter 2

Once inside Phil showed the boy to his room and instructed him to unpack while he made dinner. As Coulson closed the door behind him, he took one last look at the empty room now barely occupied by the small, broken boy that had been dumped in his lap. He shook his head to try and rid his mind of the image, but it only continued to follow him the whole time he fixed their food.

The room had belonged to his son and even walking past it still gave him a twinge of pain. He’d cleaned it out only a few months after the accident, tossed and donated all of its contents. It was completely empty save for a twin-sized bed, a low oak dresser, and a set of built-in shelves. And now an orphaned child with cracked hearing aids.

He barely heard the steps as the kid shyly crept into the kitchen and silently watched Phil finish up dinner. When it was ready, Coulson dished up two plates, setting them both on the table and sat down to eat. The kid was extremely slow in coming towards the plate, sitting down cautiously as if the food would reverse its role and eat him. The social worker didn’t say anything though and eventually the kid began scooping up his spaghetti like he’d never had food before in his life. Phil took another look at the scrawny form of the kid and figured that notion might not be as far off as he originally thought.

The boy was really shoveling it in, though, and Coulson cleared his throat to catch him before he made himself sick. “Slow down, kid. You have as much time to eat it as you want.”

For the first time that night, the boy looked up and stared at Phil. The sight took the social worker by surprise. They were eyes that didn’t belong on such a small, damaged child: a beautiful blue-grey, keen, intense, and _bright_ ; intelligence radiated from them.

“You mean it?” the kid asked in response to the remark Phil had almost forgotten he’d made.

“Yeah.” Coulson broke eye contact and pushed some of his own pasta around on his plate. He glanced back at the boy, eyes settling on the way Clint held the plate with one hand. Clearing his throat lightly, Phil added, “Don’t worry; no one’s taking it from you.”

The boy nodded but didn’t let go of the plate. His bites were smaller and slower though, so Phil counted it as progress. He cleared his throat again and, in the nature of small talk, asked, “So, how old are you?”

Clint didn’t look up from his plate. “Eight.”

The answer caught Coulson off guard a little. The kid was small for his age then. That probably didn’t warrant any bonuses in the boys’ home. Older, larger kids would most likely have seen him as an easy mark. There was a good chance they would have been the ones taking his plate, hence why the boy had a death grip on it.

“Eight,” Phil repeated, attempting to keep the ember of conversation alive. “That puts you in – what? – second grade?”

The kid simply nodded. 

“You know, I work at the school here. The second grade teacher is a friend of mine. Victoria Hand…Miss Hand.” But he was out of things to really say and the kid didn’t really seem all that interested. So Coulson let the conversation drop and finished his meal in silence. When he was done, he scrapped his dish and put it in the sink. Grabbing his paperwork from the office and what Hill had handed him, he sat back down and started on the forms while Clint finished up.

The boy began rubbing his eyes about halfway through and his yawns were blatantly obvious now.

“You want to turn in for the night?”

As per usual, the kid nodded and Phil just offered a lame “good night” as the boy was climbing the stairs to his room. Feeling kind of bad, Coulson tossed up a “see you in the morning” to accompany Clint’s ascent. It was met with no response.     

Coulson pulled out his phone and began making preparations for tomorrow. Being Clint’s temporary meant that he’d have to find somewhere for the kid to go to school, and seeing as he worked at one, it only made sense. But even being an employee there didn’t mean that he’d have the paperwork finished in time for Clint to be in class by tomorrow. So he arranged it with Principal Fury that he’d take a half-day tomorrow and then called Hand to ask if Clint could sit in for the first part of the day just to get a feel for the class and she agreed easily. That gave him the whole weekend to get the paperwork in order and push it through so that the kid could start class on Monday.

After those affairs were in order, he started on the paperwork for becoming the kid’s temporary guardian, beginning with the file folder Hill had handed him. He opened it and saw the typical layout for foster care cases: forms, a paper-clipped picture of the kid. Behind that was a yellow page of legal notebook paper with Hill’s tight, little hand writing in neat rows across the page. The notes were an overview of Clint’s brother – Barney “Barn” Barton’s – case: charges of a B&E, vehicular theft, and drug possession. The kid was only twelve. Phil shook his head at that and continued perusing the notes: abusive childhood, alcoholic father, several trips to the emergency room, a footnote to see the attached medical records including an audiology report after his father had hit him too hard on the head. That was when the boy had lost his hearing. Coulson took in a deep breath at that. It didn’t matter how many cases he had handled, shit like that always left him feeling rage. How could someone do that to a kid? To their own kid?

Again his thoughts circled back to his son, to holding Jude for the first time. The baby had been strong and healthy, yet so small, a perfect fit in his arms like he was designed to be there. He remembered the overwhelming feeling of protectiveness that had crashed over him as he’d looked down at the bundle in his arms. How could anyone want to hurt that?

The recollection suddenly hurt, and try as he may, he couldn’t quite shake the sinking feeling of loss and sadness from his system. He read on in the file about how the Barton brothers had lost their parents in a car wreck; their father had been driving drunk. And whether it was the lingering memories or just the prodding at old scars he’d been forced to endure in the past few hours, his phone was out again and Hill’s was ringing on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” she answered sleepily.

Normally he would have taken into account the lateness of the hour, but right then, Phil was in no mood for manners. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Phil? What? No. What?”

“You send me an eight-year-old boy who lost his family in a car accident and expect me to believe it’s just a coincidence?”

“Phil, I promise you. It wasn’t intentional-”

“Tell me you knew. Tell me you knew the similarities were there.”

“Yes, Phil. I did know. But I’m telling you I had nowhere else for him to go.”

“I can’t do this, Maria.”

“Phil-”

“No! Maria. I… I can’t. I keep seeing him. I keep seeing Jude.” He swallowed hard. “And I just can’t face that. I’m sorry.”

“Phil,” her tone was extraordinarily gentle and it was the only reason he didn’t hang up. “Yes, Phil, I knew the similarities. And to be honest, yes, there were a few other places I probably could have sent him. But I knew what he needed and I knew that you could give it to him.”

“And what’s that?” If his voice had an edge to it, Maria didn’t point it out.

“Someone to care about him. Someone who gave a damn that he was there and made him feel like he mattered. Someone who wouldn’t give up on him and abandon him. Okay? He needs you.” She paused for a moment before adding, “And maybe you need him too.”

Phil sighed deeply, a weariness coming over him.

“It’s only for a few weeks, Coulson.”

“I know. I know.” Another intake of breath. “Okay.” A pause. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay, Phil. Try and get some sleep yourself, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. See you Monday.” She hung up.

Phil set down his phone and picked up the file again only to put it down on top of his other paperwork. He’d look through it again tomorrow. He turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs. He passed by the door to the kid’s room and couldn’t help but open it slightly to peek inside. The outside window allowed just enough light for him to see Clint curled up into a tight little ball at the head of the bed. He thought the boy was asleep until he heard the faintest noise come from the ball. It was so quiet, that had he let out a breath in that moment he would have missed it. But he heard it again and knew immediately that the kid was crying. The sobs were tiny and muffled by the sheets.

Phil stood there, unable to decide if he should enter the room and comfort the boy, or if he should move on as if he hadn’t stumbled upon the weeping child. Had it been his own son, he would have had the kid in his arms in a heartbeat. But this was a broken boy who had been through a lot and probably wouldn’t respond well to comfort. Already the kid had flinched when Coulson had come a little too close or had moved a little too quickly. That was normal in domestic abuse cases. And the kid hadn’t heard the door open, most likely due to his aids being out of his ears; they couldn’t be comfortable to sleep in, right? Coming to the consensus that he didn’t want to startle the kid, Phil gently closed the door and let the boy cry himself to sleep.

But he didn’t sleep well after that. Too many familiar ghosts haunted his dreams.

He woke up feeling ill-rested and in desperate need of caffeine.

Making his way down to the kitchen, he started up the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot. He poured himself a steaming mug and pulled the cereal boxes from the cabinet, his sleepy brain reminding him that he had another mouth to feed and no knowledge as to what it liked to eat. He checked the time and figured he better wake up Clint.

He knocked on the door twice, pausing each time to wait for an answer before remembering the kid was deaf. Opening the door, he mentally kicked himself in an attempt to remember the boy’s condition better. His eyes scanned the vague room and settled on the bed. There was no tight ball of curled-up boy. He glanced over to the bathroom across the hall and found the door open and the room empty. He rushed back into the kitchen. Nothing. He checked every room to no avail.

“Oh hi, Hill,” he mumbled sarcastically to himself. “I’m okay. Just, you know, trying to figure out how to tell you I lost the boy you gave me.”

Suddenly a door slammed upstairs and he ran up to see Clint’s door shut tight. He opened it again, a scolding ready on his tongue, but once more found the room vacant. However, this time he noticed the window was open, the breeze threatening to close the door again.

Phil rushed to the window expecting to see a ladder or rope made of sheets, something that would have allowed the boy to get out. Nothing.

His eyes wandered to the tree just outside the window. It would have been a bit of a leap, especially since the boy was so small, but it was the only option. Phil’s gaze followed the gnarly branches upwards, catching a strained glimpse of a dirty sneaker.

“Clint?” he called out.

There was no response and Coulson wondered for a moment if the kid had yet to put in his hearing aids.

“Clint?” he yelled again, a little louder.

The fractionally visible sneaker disappeared in the foliage.

“Clint, I know you’re up there.” There was no answer but Phil got the feeling the boy knew he was being addressed. Sure enough, a moment later the sneakers came into view along with some dusty jeans and a faded T-shirt. The eyes that had pinned him last night were staring at him, light dancing off of them through the spotty leaves. “Come down,” Phil practically pleaded. The kid didn’t move.

Phil was getting a bit angry now, frustrated at the boy’s stubbornness. He leaned out a little further from the window and that was when it hit.

The social worker didn’t have vertigo or anything serious like that, but he did have an annoying fear of heights. He was told once that it stemmed from when he was a boy, younger than Clint even, he’d managed to climb up on top of the refrigerator and proceeded to get stuck up there, since the box he had stepped on to get up had fallen down. He’d cried and cried but no one had been able to find him up there for far longer than he’d liked. And from that day on, Phil Coulson hated heights. And now the boy he was supposed to be looking after was difficultly staying in the tallest tree on the block.

“Clint, please come back in before you fall.”

The boy scoffed. Openly scoffed. “I ain’t gonna fall.”

Coulson raised a dubious eyebrow. “What makes you so sure.”

The boy shrugged. “I haven’t yet.”

“Well let’s not test that logic. Okay? Come on back in.” He emphasized the command with a motion of his arm sweeping back into the room.  

The boy just starred for a moment before shrugging again and inching out onto the branch. Phil could visibly see the way his leg muscles were tensing and before he could even piece together that was about to happen, the boy was in the air, flying towards the window ledge, landing with his forearms braced on the sill and his feet dangling out on the side of the house. In an almost sate of panic, Phil hooked his hands around the kid’s waist and hauled him inside, only satisfied once Clint had both feet flat on the floor.

He jerked the widow shut with more force and anger than what was probably necessary. He locked his gaze with the boy’s and sternly pointed a single finger at him. “That is the last time you ever, ever do that. You hear me?”

Clint looked absolutely deflated, but eventually nodded, a deep frown on his face that Phil might have felt bad about if he wasn’t so shaken.

His tone was much softer now as he started towards the door. “Come on, let’s have breakfast.” The kid shuffled behind him.

Phil kept trying to casually look the boy over, make sure he was in fact all right, between spoonfuls of Cheerios, but each time he’d only see the top of Clint’s head. The kid was bent over his own bowl looking like he’d been kicked. Coulson cleared his throat and no sooner was his mouth open then the kid’s head was up and worry permeated his blue-grey eyes.

“Please don’t send me back,” he pleaded in a rush. “I’m sorry I-”

“Ah, kid,” Phil cut him off. “I’m not going to send you back.” But after that all he could do was shake his head. _That’s_ what the boy was worried about? No wonder the look in his eyes was pure fear and heartbreak. “Look, I don’t give up that easy.”

Clint cautiously went back to his bowl of cereal. They ate in silence a while before the child ventured a guess.

“You’re scared of heights.”

Phil glanced at him but kept his voice light and calm. “What makes you say that?”

“Well you had both your feet on the floor and the ledge came up to your waist so you weren’t gonna fall, but your hands were gripped onto the frame for dear life.” He took a spoonful of cereal and finished with his mouth full, “So you’re scared of heights.”

Coulson, now done with his breakfast and ready for a second cup of coffee, got up and kept his back to the kid as he answered, “I’m not afraid of heights.” He rinsed out his bowl, knowing the sound of the water would mask his muttered amendment, “Falling from them is a different story.”

When he sat back down, coffee in hand, the kid had a doubtful expression on his face. He played with his spoon for a second before mentioning, “Jackson was afraid of heights.”

Not sure who Jackson was, but thrilled that the child was choosing to continue to talk to him after their rough start to the morning, he encouraged, “Is that so?”

“Mmm hmm. He would hit me so I would run to the barn and hide in the hayloft. Jackson never went up there ‘cause he was scared. He didn’t like that I’d figured that out, though, so he’d stay at the bottom so I couldn’t come down. He stayed there until dinner was over and then have one of his friends sneak him food so he’d still get to eat but I didn’t.”

“And how long did this go on?”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t know. But Trick found out about it and would sometimes bring me back something from when he and Barn snuck out at night. I know it was mostly to keep me quiet about them being out, but it was still kinda nice of him. Right?”    

The look of expectance in his eyes was more than enough for Coulson to agree, even though he wasn’t sure if he really did or not. The kid figured out it was a bribe but wanted so desperately for it to have some genuine feeling behind it, so Coulson would indulge in that.

Well now he at least had an idea of one of the ways the kid had missed out on food. It didn’t explain why he kept a death grip in his plate last night and even his bowl this morning, but Phil could interpolate enough to guess that the boy missed other meals due to kids taking his plate from him. It hurt to think about and Phil didn’t want to get too involved with this kid since he was going to be leaving in a few weeks, so he just looked at his watch and grunted something about needing to get to school.

Once there, Phil ushered Clint inside and dropped him off at Miss Hand’s room, explaining to him that this would be his classroom for the weeks he was there and this was Miss Hand whom he had mentioned the night before. The kid nodded dutifully, a slight fear dimming his bright eyes. But the shimmer came back by a degree when Phil told him he’d be back at lunch to pick him up. Thanking Hand again, Phil left, hoping the kid would be okay for a few hours.


	3. Chapter 3

When the bell sounded for lunch, Phil went to Hand’s room to pick up Clint and to meet with the teacher for a rundown of how it had gone that morning.

Hand half shrugged when Phil asked. “Well he stayed pretty quiet the whole time. He didn’t like having to introduce himself. But he finished the timed addition quiz before anyone else. Even Pepper Potts.”

She was referring, of course, to Virginia Potts, the girl who had skipped a grade and was still ahead of the curve in her schoolwork.

“And got them right,” she added, this time presenting a tone of impressment in her voice.  

“Well he’s a smart kid,” Coulson summed up as the blonde boy came out into the hall, battered backpack bouncing along behind him. “Ready to go?” he asked him. The kid just nodded, his face blank. “Okay. See you Monday, Victoria.”

“Have a good weekend, Phil.”

Coulson lead him down the hall and outside.

They stopped for lunch at a local diner that Phil frequented since it was so close to the school. The waitress, Sandy, cooed a little over Clint and went to ruffle his hair. But the boy jerked back, his hands rising up protectively to his face almost instinctively, panic radiating from his small body. Sandy pulled her hands back immediately and started to apologize before tossing the question to Phil if the kid was a domestic abuse case, knowing he was a social worker. The counselor nodded once and stepped in front of Clint, getting down to his height, telling him he was okay, that no one was going to hurt him. The fear dissipated slowly but eventually they could be escorted to their booth without any more issues. Sandy threw in a free chocolate shake with their meal as an apology. Phil tried to dissuade her from doing so, but Clint was already sucking the treat down, a small smile on his face, so he gave up.

When their food came, they ate in silence. But popping a fry into his mouth, the boy finally spoke up, asking, “Who’s Jude?”

The inquiry hit Phil harder than he thought it would. He knew he’d most likely eventually tell the kid about the family he’d lost, but he never pictured it being so soon.

“Why do you ask?”

The boy shrugged and slurped loudly from his shake that was getting near the bottom. “Miss Hand accidently called me Jude and I didn’t know if you knew one. Like if he was another foster kid or something.”

Phil stabbed absently at his side salad before sucking in a breath and diving into the sea of emotion that was his lost family. “Jude was my son. He died last winter.” Two simple sentences. That was it. But those two sentences took more strength to utter than anything else in the world.

The boy frowned deeply at the news and he waited a moment before asking and pointing to the gold band still on Phil’s left ring finger, “His mom too?”

The counselor spun the ring around his finger with his other hand as if he was defending its lingering position. “Yeah, Audrey,” he breathed before dropping his hands again and clearing his throat, shoving down the rising wave of raw emotion that was desperately trying to surface.

But the kid’s observation intrigued him. Coupled with his remark that morning about Phil’s fear of heights, and Coulson was officially curious. “You notice a lot, don’t you?”

The boy didn’t look up from the remnants of shake in the bottom of his glass. “If you keep an eye out for trouble you can avoid it.”

“Is that something you learned in the boy’s home?”

“Mmm hmm. Trick told me that.”

Phil thought about snitching a fry from Clint’s plate, but stopped himself in time. Stealing any food from the kid would not be way to build up trust, and he needed as much as he could get if he was going to be in charge of him for a few weeks. So instead he asked, “Would you consider Trick a friend?”

Again the boy shrugged and kept his focus on sliding the fragments of ice cream left together with his straw. “He looked out for me, I guess.”

Phil doubted the kid understood how wrong that statement had to be since he was forced to miss meals from being terrorized by another kid. If Trick had been a real friend he would have stood up for him. Hell, if his brother had even a fraction of care for him he would have done something to help, or at least not get sent to Juvie. But the kid wanted to believe that he hadn’t been alone in his personal hell, so Phil kept his mouth shut except to ask one last question. “Why was he named Trick?”

“It was actually Trick Shot and it was because he could do all kinds of cool tricks when throwing things. Like juggling three rocks and then skipping them all in the same line down the lake. He showed me how to do that one. Said I had a natural talent for it.”

Well at least Trick paid more attention to the boy than his older brother did. Even if Clint had to fight his own battles, Trick sounded like he at least acknowledged the kid as something more than a punching bag. Phil decided he’d ask Maria if she knew where Trick Shot had ended up in this whole ordeal and maybe let the boys spend some time together. Foster kids had to give up so many friends that most quit trying to make any. If he could keep at least one friendship alive in this boy’s life then he would easily.

After paying the bill, Phil led the kid to a clothes store down the street and told him to pick out two pairs of jeans and three shirts, thinking that they’d slowly start replacing his tattered wardrobe. Clint stayed simple with two pairs of faded blue jeans, and three T-shirts, all plain white. It took some convincing but eventually he got the kid to venture out into a black T-shirt and one colored. He wasn’t sure what to think of the dark purple one; it just didn’t seem to be a choice the kid would make, but Clint liked it, so purple it was.

Once back home, Phil told Clint he could play in the backyard or watch TV while he worked on some paperwork. The boy took a glance at the meager excuse of a backyard and marched straight into the living room. Phil shook his head and smiled to himself. He should have guessed that a kid who easily climbed into the biggest tree on the block out the window on the side of the house would be used to more of a space to run around in. He made a mental note to take him to the park sometime that weekend.

About an hour and a half later, Phil needed a break. He walked into the living room to join the kid in front of the tube for a while to reset his brain. The boy had on some animated superhero series and was curled up on the end of the couch, his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest.

“Is it a good episode?” the counselor asked, trying to still feel out the newest addition to his life.

The boy predictably shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s hard to follow what they say; they talk so fast. And it’s not like you can lip read cartoons.”

It took Phil a second to follow that train of thought, but quickly remembered the boy’s disability. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and searched the device for the little icon. Upon finding it, he pressed the button and after a moment a black box came up on the bottom of the screen with white letters in it.

Clint’s eyes widened as he looked over at Phil. “What did you do?”

“Closed captions. Now what they’re saying appears on screen.”

As the episode went on, Phil found himself watching the screen less and Clint more. The boy was fully engaged in the TV show now, his eyes drinking in the dialogue, laughing at the punch lines and sarcastic quips. He was captivated in a world that he had been missing, and that revelation hit Phil hard. Sure, the closed captions weren't perfect, but they were an improvement according to Clint and watching him eat that up was enough for Phil.

When the episode was over, Coulson went back to his paperwork. It was only after another filled out form or so that he realized that Clint could have just turned up the volume. He wondered briefly if the kid hadn’t thought to do that because he most likely never had that kind of control at the boys’ home, or if he was being considerate of Coulson working in the next room. He shook his head, not sure he’d get an answer even if he did ask, and went back to work. 


	4. Chapter 4

The weekend passed in a blur of tidbits of exchanged personal information (the kid didn’t like green beans, he’d never played go fish before, Phil knew how to open a bottle with his palm, he’d been married to a cellist), new rules (don’t perch on the back of the couch, don’t stash food in your room – you can help yourself to the fridge anytime and you _will_ be fed at meals, don’t leap from the monkey bars to the slide on the playground), and intermittent paperwork (including the forms due to Maria by that coming Monday and the school registration papers.). After taking Sunday afternoon to go and get new shoes, the two stayed in the park until the sun went down. Phil watched in both worry and awe as the kid climbed and leapt, flipped and flittered from play structure to tree and back. It was like the kid was an acrobat. His balance was incredible and, like he kept insisting an apprehensive Phil, he never fell.

When Coulson dropped the boy off at Miss Hand’s room that Monday, he felt an echo of the same rush of anxiety he’d felt dropping Jude off on his first day of school. The comparison and accompanying emotion caught the counselor off guard a little. But he chalked it up to having gotten to know the kid a little more over the weekend and feeling concerned for him. He was a good kid, and Phil really wanted to see him do well. Knowing that he had a little power to make that happen made him feel incongruently responsible for the boy.

_Remember, he’s only here for a few weeks._

It would be a mantra that would grow increasingly common over the next couple months.

He dropped the paperwork off to Hill while on his lunch break. She looked relieved to have it and Phil guessed it was so that she could get a move on with her messy case.

“Thanks, Phil. And thank you so much again for taking him.”

Coulson smiled a little and bobbed his shoulders once. “He’s quite the piece of work, Maria. Equal parts shy, sweet, and snarky.”

“You forgot smart, sincere, and sarcastic.”

Phil’s smile widened. “Don’t forget observant.”

“Way to ruin the ‘S’ theme,” Hill joked tiredly, stacking some files and all but collapsing into her desk chair. This case was a monster.

“Doesn’t make it any less true. He figured out my fear of heights after less than twenty-four hours of being with me.”

“Yeah the kid’s a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

“There you go, another ‘S.’” 

That got a grin from Hill. But the expression faded into one much more serious. “I meant it when I said that he needs you, Phil. This kid…” She shook her head slowly. Phil came closer to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“I know.” And he did. Or at least he was picking up on it. Clint had been without someone he could rely on for too long. And while he may never fully trust him, Phil hoped he would at least come to realize that there are people who care about him, who want to help him.   

He checked his watch and mumbled that he had to get back. “Good luck with the case.”

Maria offered him a pale smile that didn’t hit her eyes. And just as he was about to leave, she called after him, “Don’t forget those ‘S’s.’ And don’t let him use them to con you into or out of anything, okay.” And while there was playfulness in her voice at that, there was truth too, and Coulson knew it. Clint was a good kid, but he still had his quirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's kind of short this week, but next time's will be longer; I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint had been under Phil’s care for a little over a week before it happened. Coulson had startled awake at a noise he was unfamiliar with. And as his sleepy mind pulled itself further into consciousness, he realized it was coming from Clint’s room.

Phil’s heart pounded as he tossed off the covers and raced towards the screams coming from across the hall. Clint was thrashing around as the obvious nightmare kept its grip on him. Phil bolted over to him and began to shake the boy awake.

“Clint, wake up; it’s just a bad dream. It’s just a bad dream, bud. Wake up.”

It happened so fast, Phil wasn’t sure how it was humanly possible. But in one instant, Clint’s eyes few open and the boy scrambled backwards, huddling close to the wall and as far away from Phil’s grip was possible. In the back of his mind, the counselor chastised himself for forgetting that Clint didn’t like to be touched, let alone handled.

Coulson’s hands shot up to his sides, fingertips at eye level, in an innocent gesture, showing his hands were empty and away from the terrified boy before him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Clint. I’m not going to hurt you.”

By the light bleeding in from the window, Phil could see comprehension slowly come into the kid’s terrified blue-grey eyes. He watched as the familiarity of the room and the other occupant crept into his gaze. There were tears on the boy’s cheeks, but they were quickly wiped away with a harsh fist and shaky fingers.

“Phil?” His voice was too tiny, all choked up and tear stained. Its smallness scared Phil. What horror had the boy dreamed that had him so terrified?  

“It’s okay, Clint.”

Then very slowly, Coulson inched forward, hands still reaching for the night sky. But even the short amount of distance he’d traveled was enough to have Clint shrinking in on himself further. So Phil stopped any attempt at comforting the boy through contact and instead just sat down on the opposite side of the bed, elbows resting on knees. A minute or two later he swiped the kid’s hearing aids off the bedside table and extended them in an open palm to the boy, who cautiously took them and put them in.

“You okay?” Phil asked, not turning to watch as the kid wiped away any tear remnants and sucked in a mucus-clogged breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” was the pale reply that Phil didn’t believe for a second.

Coulson wanted more than anything in that moment to help the boy, to comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay. But he couldn’t promise him that. Clint had had a horrible life so far and was more than aware of the evil that could be in it. What he didn’t know was the good and the care and comfort that could be in it too. But the boy had been too hurt, too damaged to be easy with contact and, well, comfort and care and good. He’d been abused, starved, abandoned; it was no wonder he had nightmares.

With a heavy sigh at not being able help the kid the way he would like to, Phil scrubbed a hand down his face and calmly asked if Clint would like a glass of warm milk. To his surprise, after a moment of consideration, the kid nodded.

Clint sat at the kitchen table as Phil heated up a glass of milk in the microwave and then set it in front of the kid. He took a sip of it as Coulson sat across from him. The blue-grey of his eyes was still shadowed, but the pure torment had left. Once the boy was about halfway through the glass, Phil ventured, “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

Clint just stared at the glass for a long while, but eventually his eyes flicked upwards and he nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Coulson was expecting the kid to shake his head, but for the second time that night, he got a surprise.

“I was hiding in the cabinet under the sink, hiding from Dad.” He took another sip of milk and rubbed at his left eye with a tried fist. “But he found me.”

Phil carefully folded his hands and stared down at them. “Was this a nightmare or a memory?”

Clint shrugged a thin little shoulder. “Both.”

Flattening his lips into a straight line, Coulson hummed deep in the back of his throat to mask the hit that statement carried. This little boy was so plagued with terrors that they couldn’t all fit in the daytime and had to fight their way into the night as well. Phil wanted nothing more than to chase those away. “You know you’re safe here, Clint. No one is going to hurt you. I promise.”

The boy’s eyes never left the glass. “Promises don’t mean anything.”

Phil’s heart broke a little at that.

No child deserved to have every ounce of his trust taken from him. It was truly a testament to the kid’s strength and courage, and the last thing Phil wanted to do was break that. The boy was a survivor; he just needed to learn that he didn’t have to survive alone.

“So then I won’t promise,” Coulson stated with a nonchalant shrug that contradicted the severity in his eyes. “I’ll prove it to you.”

And when Clint looked up, Phil could see something new in the gaze. It was bright but wavering, a tiny ember seeking the needed oxygen to create a vivid flame. It was hope. And it was so important and precious that it required more resistance than Phil wanted to admit to having to not reach out and take that little boy into his arms. Because in that moment, that single moment where hope had shone in his eyes, Phil had become the sole most important person in Clint’s world. He became the man that was going to _prove_ to him that there was good out there and that he was deserving of it.

They didn’t talk again until the glass was empty and the kid was spending more time rubbing at his eyes than actually keeping them open. Phil rinsed out the glass in the sink, telling Clint to go back to bed. The boy did so and Coulson listened closely for the padding of his bare feet to fade away. Once they had, he let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head. It had only been a week, but Phil was already feeling like he was running out of time. He needed to prove to this kid that he was safe now, and he only had a few more weeks to do so. And with a boy as tormented as Clint, that was a tall order on a very short timeline. 


	6. Chapter 6

It was lunchtime on Wednesday when Phil had an unexpected conversation in the faculty lunchroom. Miss Hand politely asked if she could sit at his table before doing so with a concerned look on her face.

“Is everything okay?” Phil asked.

“For the most part, yes, it’s just…”

“Is Clint okay?”

“He’s fine, Phil.” The slight pause in there made the counselor realize that his voice may have been a bit too shaky, his face displaying more panic than it should. But ever since the boy had had that nightmare, and ever since Phil had promised to prove to him that he was safe and cared for – cared about – Coulson seemed to be on high alert, scared to death that he would fail the kid and be added to the list of those that had abandoned him. He did _not_ want to be on that list.

Hand continued, “I was just curious, has he ever been tested for dyslexia?”

Phil blinked a few times, reviewing the kid’s file in his mind. “I don’t think so. There was nothing in his file anyway. Do you think he needs to?”

Her lips pursed ever so lightly. “The boy’s brilliant in math and science. But he seems to be having trouble reading, especially in reading and following directions. Now I know that might be in part because of his hearing loss and not always catching everything, but I see more trouble in when he has to read directions, or answer questions about an assigned story.”

Phil hummed in contemplation before nodding once and finishing with, “I’ll see if I can get him a test scheduled.”

“Thank you, Phil. And if it turns out he does have it, we can arrange for him to have a tutor if you want.” A pause, and then, “He really is smart.”

Phil grinned at that. “I know it. Just the other day I found him watching some people playing billiards on TV. He told me, repeatedly, which ball was going to go in which pocket. And he was right.”

“We wouldn’t happen to be talking about Barton, would we?” a voice asked from behind Hand. Mr. Triplet, the gym teacher, stood there, tray in one hand and an arched brow on his forehead.

“We are,” Hand supplied.

Triplet smiled. “That boy is wicked at dodge ball. He was the last one standing on his team against the three largest boys on the other and he picked them off like it was nothing.” He huffed and his grin widened. “Bet that’s the last time your boy gets chosen last, Phil.” He gave a nod and strode off to another table, his piece spoken.

Hand finished her lunch as well, leaving Phil to remain stuck in what Triplet had said. Although it stung just a little, it didn’t surprise him that Clint had been picked last on a team; he was small and the new kid, not a combination with a great track history. But the kid was also fast and could see things extremely well, almost to the point of precognition.   

But that wasn’t what Phil’s attention was focused on the most. Triplet had called him his boy. Your boy. He knew the gym teacher was only referring to how Phil was looking after the kid until Maria could find him a place – most of the faculty knew the story – but he couldn’t quite shake the odd feeling in his gut when he thought about the phrase. Part of him liked the sound of it. It was familiar and comforting and felt right in his mind. But the other part, the larger part, rejected the concept all together. Clint was not “his boy.” He’d had a boy and now he was dead. His son was dead and Clint was not his son. Clint was only temporary.

But that thought left a dark spot on his mind and Phil couldn’t quite put a finger on why that was.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,   
> I hope you're enjoying it so far. Let me know what you think or if something is glaringly wrong.   
> See ya next week.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intense Pheels this chapter as we get some backstory on his family.  
> And a hinted cameo...

It was so stereotypically American that Phil still couldn’t quite believe it. They were actually playing catch in the park on a sunny fall afternoon. The air was crisp and the sun was dappling the ground, igniting the fiery colors of fallen leaves. Clint had broken out the grey pull over they’d gotten him last week and Phil was wearing the purple scarf the kid had talked him into getting. Later he had rolled his eyes at it because he’d recalled Maria warning him against letting the kid talk him into anything. And yet here he was with a purple scarf around his neck, tossing a worn-out baseball to the boy with nothing less than a wide smile on his face.

The sun was just beginning to go down and the air was starting to take on the sting it normally did when night was approaching. Clint caught Phil’s pitch with his usual amazing accuracy and lobbed it back with the same skill. The kid was great at this and for a moment Phil let his mind wander to an imagined future of watching the kid play baseball in the big leagues, crowds going wild as his name was called and the boy – now man – marching onto the field, pausing only to send a small wave to Phil up in the stands. His fantasy made him miss the kid’s next pitch and the ball knocked into his arm with bruising force.

“Ow,” Phil complained with a note of sarcasm.

“Eye on the ball, Phil,” the kid countered, a smirk on his face that lit up his eyes. And as much as he hated to admit it, that expression looked so at home on Clint’s face that Phil could never condemn it to scolding.

“I can’t help it you have freaky force in your scrawny little arm.”

The smirk spread into a smile.

They tossed the ball a few more times before a stray Frisbee flew their way and sailed right up into the tree behind them, getting stuck in the boughs. A moment later two boys came jogging up to the tree and frowned at the height at which the Frisbee was lodged into the branches. Clint took one look at the situation before walking over, handing the ball to Phil on the way, and telling them that he could get it down.

“You sure?” a thin, wiry boy, with blonde hair and light blue eyes, asked.

“Yeah,” Clint answered, already sizing up the branch closest to the ground. He could practically feel Phil’s apprehension behind him but ignored it as he jumped up and caught the branch, pulling himself up with his arms. He navigated his way through the branches, avoiding the small and brittle ones as best as he could. One did snap beneath him but he had a good enough grip on the bough above him that he barely slipped. It didn’t escape Phil’s notice though and within seconds, the man was under the tree calling up for the boy to come down.

“It’s okay, Phil,” Clint shot back as he found the Frisbee and shook it loose from the leaves into his awaiting palm. Phil didn’t say anything else but it was obvious he was holding his breath.

Clint tossed the red and blue striped Frisbee with a white star in the middle of it down to the boys at the bottom of the tree.

“Thanks,” the blonde expressed, smiling. He turned to his brunette friend and the pair of them left.

Clint maneuvered downward in the tree a few branches before pausing to look out and take in the view. The sun was setting a brilliant yellow and the sky was blue-violet. It was beautiful and even more amazing from his vantage point. But down below Phil was still in a state of panic.

“Okay, Clint. Come down.”

The boy cast a glance at Coulson and slowly an idea sprouted in his head as a smile blossomed on his face.

“You should come up, Phil.”

“What?” There was more than a note of panic in it as well as the beginnings of anger.

“Yeah, come on up. It’s nice. The sky’s big and pretty. You should really come up and see it.”

“It looks the same from down here.” It was a weak argument but it was all the counselor had.

“No it doesn’t,” the boy corrected, slightly annoyed. “C’mon, Phil.”

“No.”

“Is it ‘cause you’re a afraid of heights?”

“I’m not af-” but he stopped at the dubious eyebrow Clint was arching at him. Damn that kid’s perceptiveness.

“You’re always telling me to trust you, right?” the boy began, a new tactic in play.

“Yeah…” came the hesitant answer.

“Well then why don’t you trust me? Okay. Trust me, Phil; you won’t fall.”

The kid was playing him and he knew it. But one look in the boy’s blue-grey eyes was enough to pull Coulson up short. The kid was serious. He not only wanted Phil to face his fear and climb up in the tree with him, but to also trust him that he wouldn’t fall. Phil wanted to reject it, to order the kid down and to go home, but that look in Clint’s eyes was enough to get him to reconsider. Here was a boy that for years had to face his worst fears day in and day out. He didn’t have the option to back out. And Phil had asked him multiple times already to trust him. Why shouldn’t he do the same? And who better to tell him that he wouldn’t plunge than the boy who had yet to fall.

Pulling in a breath, Phil sized up the bottom branch like Clint had, and, with a decisive nod of his head, he jumped up and caught the branch. He dangled for a moment, getting used to the sensation of his feet being off the ground. Then he folded at the waist and tucked one leg under him – feeling something pull and knowing he’d pay for it tomorrow – before placing his foot on the branch and using it to help leverage his body onto the bough.

With some coaching and lots of encouragement from Clint, Phil finally was about ten feet off the ground and near the boy who then turned and pointed to the setting sun.

“It really is prettier up here,” the man admitted after a moment. And although there was no response from the boy at his side, Phil noticed the smile on his face out of the corner of his eye.

They sat there in silence on the sturdy branch watching the sun settle deeper and deeper on the horizon until it had all but vanished. And with a little more aid, both the boy and the counselor were back safely on the ground.

On the car ride home, Phil just said thank you and neither one needed clarification as to what for.  

 

Later that night, Clint settled down in his bed, sheets tucked around him as he curled up on his side. Phil verbally ran through the checklist with him from the doorway:

“Books in your backpack?”

“Yes.”

“Shower taken and you scrubbed behind your ears?”

“Yes, Phil.”

“Teeth brushed and flossed?”

“Half. But I’ll leave you guessing which one.”

Phil rolled his eyes and shook his head. Clint just smirked a little, settling in deeper under his blankets.

“Alright. Sleep tight, Clint.

“Night, Phil.”

But just as Coulson was about to turn off the lights, Clint called his name. He sat up in bed and stared at the counselor with intense blue-grey eyes. And in a rush he asked a question he knew would hit hard and reopen unfair wounds.

“How did they die?”

Phil blinked for a minute or two, finally coming to terms with what the child was asking. For a second he considered asking why Clint wanted to know, and then he thought about just leaving the question hanging in the air unanswered. But the kid had asked him to trust him earlier. And that’s what this was about. Phil knew about Clint’s history and the demons that were born from it and lived in the shadows of the boy’s eyes. But the kid didn’t know why Phil’s eyes were also dull. The boy trusted him with his darkness; it was time Phil did the same about himself.

With a schooled expression on his face, Phil came in and sat on the end of Clint’s bed. “It was a car accident. It was last winter. It was raining and the temperatures were just starting to drop below freezing. We were on our way back from one of Audrey’s recitals. It was dark and traffic was moving at a crawl because ice patches were starting to form. Jude was asleep in the back, Audrey beside me humming one of the pieces to herself.”

He had to stop a moment and Clint waited patiently as Phil pulled his thoughts and emotions together.

“And then out of nowhere, this car comes up behind us, going way too fast. He slams into us and sends the car spinning.” He took a shuttering breath. “We crashed into a telephone pole and then I blacked out only to wake up in the hospital alone.”

A tear rolled down his cheek. He had tried to stop it but it fell anyway, not caring whether he wanted to keep his emotions in check or not. He wiped it away with his hand and then went back to staring straight ahead, the pain of the memory still clawing at his heart.

But then there were thin arms around his shoulders and soft blonde hair feather-light against his neck and cheek. Coulson pushed away another sob and the arms tightened around him.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Clint whispered, his voice small and tender.

Coulson just leaned his cheek against the boy’s head and closed his eyes. They stayed like that for longer than Phil wanted to admit, but he eventually sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly, carefully leaning away from the small, warm comfort of the boy next to him. And as he pulled away he avoided looking into the kid’s eyes, not wanting to read any of the emotions that might be displayed there.

His voice was ragged as he bid the boy good night.

“Night, Phil,” was the gentle reply.

Coulson turned out the light and shut the kid’s door before going into his own room and collapsing on the bed.

Whether it was the freshness of the rehashed memory, or if he was just feeling lost, he pulled the other pillow close to his chest and breathed in the very faint lingering scent of his wife. And if another teardrop rolled down his cheek and onto the sheet, well, no one was there to witness it.     


	8. Chapter 8

There was good news, bad news, and news the counselor didn’t know how to feel about. The bad news was the kid’s test results came back positive for dyslexia; the good news was Miss Hand already had a tutor available to help him. Young Miss Pepper Potts had volunteered to help Clint for half an hour after school each day. Coulson had a feeling that the young girl was keeping a check on her academic rival. And if the boy wound up helping her with her math or science homework, well then, the world would be in balance.

But it was the news that he didn’t know how to feel about that had his mind in a twist. Maria had called to inform him that she was having trouble finding a family that would take Clint because of his hearing impairment.

On one hand, Phil was upset that so few people would take in the kid and give him the home he deserved. But on the other, it meant that he would get to spend more time with the boy who had unexpectedly taken over his life.

He was halfway through some ever-present paperwork when there was a knock on his office door. He permitted entrance with a grunt and in walked Principal Fury.

The man was an impressive image of authority, dressed in a black suit with a silver tie, his weathered hands covered in ambiguous scars, a simple pitch-colored eye patch wrapping at an angle around his dark-skinned head. His singular visible eye could strike fear into any juvenile delinquent easily. And if that wasn’t enough, the man had a voice deep as a well and a way with words that would put great orators to shame.

“Sir,” Coulson greeted, standing up to offer the principal a handshake. Fury took it and then sat down in the seat opposite Phil who mimicked the action shortly after the other man. “Did you need something?”

The man looked around the small office offhandedly. “I saw you toting a boy to school today. He the one from the boys’ home that’s under investigation?”

“Yes, Sir. Maria Hill at the west side office asked if I could take him for a few weeks while she sorted out the case.” Phil started rearranging the papers and pens on his desk, habitually avoiding the principal’s gaze.

The man hummed contemplatively for a moment before finally focusing on the counselor before him. “How old is he?”

“Eight.”

“You two getting along?”

Coulson couldn’t help the smile that spread out on his face. “He’s a real puzzle, Sir. Sensitive. But smart. Funny too.” 

Another deep-throated hum. “Coulson, do you know why I have this job?” But he didn’t really wait for an answer. “It’s because I’m willing to go the path no one wants to, to ask the questions no one wants to hear.” He took in a deep breath. “So with that, I have to ask, are you using this boy to replace Jude?”

Phil’s jaw tightened just a tiny bit. “No, Sir.”

The man stood and Coulson stood with him. “Good,” he began, moving for the door, “because that wouldn’t be fair. Not to you, not to your son, and not to him.”

“I understand. Thank you, Sir.”

But when Phil sank back into his seat he couldn’t focus on his work. Flipping up the picture on his desk, he stared long and hard at the people he no longer had to hold. He thought of rain and twisted metal, of two gravestones in a well-kept cemetery. And then he thought of a little blonde boy with blue-grey eyes. Dared to imagine the kid in the same photo with his wife and child. Part of him smiled at the idea, found the image to be even more perfect. But the damaged part of his heart cursed him for trying to invade the old scars of his loss with something bright and new. He put the photo down and then when it wasn’t enough, he shoved it in a drawer. _I’m not betraying you,_ he told those scars. _He’s not your replacement._ He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

His gaze flitted over to the window and took in the sunshine. Maybe he would take Clint to the park this afternoon.          


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter this week since it falls in line with the upcoming holiday. And because 8 was really short.

Jude had hated Halloween. The boy, like his father, had a kind heart by nature and his mother’s vivid imagination. The result was a kid who could be scared easily just by the unspoken things his mind thought up, of the possibility of the monsters in the shadows. Jude had spent more than one night curled up in bed with his parents because of nightmares. And when the thirty-first of October approached, Jude was there more often.

So the kid would get dressed up and go trick-or-treating on the block with his dad beside him, and as soon as someone in a mask inevitably came up to him and said, “Boo,” the boy was back home, snuggled up on the couch, and eating candy while watching cheery animated movies.

Clint hadn’t celebrated Halloween since he was five, and even then, didn’t remember it much. He’d told Phil that Barn once said his father would make them dump out their candy so he could take “his share,” which more often than not was pretty much all of it, but he wasn’t sure. So when Phil asked him if he wanted to dress up and trick-or-treat around the block, the kid was more than enthusiastic, and spent a considerable amount of time trying to decide what he would be. In the end, though, the choice was obvious…

After Miss Hand had suggested to Phil that he read with Clint to help strengthen the kid’s ability and skills, the two had started reading together at night. The tutoring from Pepper was helping as well, and Phil found that each night Clint got a little faster.

The kid was still dyslexic and the words floated, but Phil’s patience and encouragement allowed him to take the reading slower and his focus sharpened. But it was when they’d checked out _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ that Clint truly came alive. Phil had to explain some of the bigger words, but the overall story was easy to grasp and Clint loved it. They would take turns reading so Clint would get a break to sit back and just enjoy the story. And he really enjoyed it. Never before had the boy hurried up getting ready for bed, but he did it in a flash so that they could have more time in Nottingham, shooting arrows, hiding in trees, and outsmarting the sheriff.

Phil had to wonder if a part of the kid connected with the character on a personal level; the hiding in trees bit help sell that. But maybe also the evil Prince John was William Carter, the man in charge of the boy’s home, and the sheriff was Jackson Parker, the boy who stared up at the rafters after Clint had outsmarted him. And of course, Clint was Robin: the hero, the good guy, the one with friends gathered around him, to care about him. Maybe in the boy’s mind Trick Shot and his brother were among the merry men.

So when one night after Phil had closed the book on the dozing boy, it didn’t really surprise him when, through a yawn, the kid announced he was going to be Robin Hood for Halloween. And with that declaration, Phil made it his job to get Clint the best costume he could.

A trip to the thrift store after school had yielded a pair of brown pants and a green hoodie that they cut the sleeves off of and used one of Phil’s belts to turn it into a tunic. Phil asked a neighbor whose kids were all grown if they had any boots left from previous years, and with a nod, a pair was supplied. And one conversation with Triplet had given him a training bow and some blunt target arrows from The Treehouse – a sporting goods store/gym where the man worked part time. He’d thrown in a quiver too.

On Halloween night Clint was nothing but a bundle of energy and that was before he’d even had any candy. Phil was grinning, practically beaming, as he watched Clint walk around the neighborhood, intermingling with the other kids as they approached door after door in search of delicious, brightly wrapped treats.

Phil took a moment to compare the boy’s experience to Jude’s. His son had been frightened of the masks and decorations. Clint has already faced abuse and hunger and abandonment; what more could a few plastic skeletons do to him? But Phil pushed away the sadness and pity that had clouded those thoughts so that he could revel in the smile that was splitting Clint’s face.

When the sun was well tucked away under the horizon, Phil and Clint made their way back home where the boy proceeded to dump out all his candy on the kitchen table and sort through it. Anything he didn’t want, he’d offer to Phil – as well as all of his peanut butter cups because he knew Phil loved them so much. And when the spoils were divided and a victor’s share of them consumed, the counselor informed the boy to get ready for bed.

“And be sure to brush _and_ floss tonight.”

Clint rolled his eyes but proceeded upstairs anyway.

Phil knew the kid would be up awhile because of all the sugar intake of the last forty minutes. Oh well, maybe they would get through the rest of the Hardy Boy’s book they’d check out last week. It was Clint’s backup series; he liked it enough that he’d read it, but it took them awhile to get through a book since it wasn’t as gripping – or maybe relatable – as Robin Hood had been. But the kid liked the mysteries and maybe there was something in the fact that the characters were brothers. Maybe Clint missed his brother more than he let on?

When Phil went upstairs to check on the kid’s bedtime routine progress, he found Clint in his PJs, barefoot on top of the dresser in his room, bow in his hand, an arrow noched, and a full quiver slung across his back.

“Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?” the boy asked, arrow aimed at the opening door.

Maybe it was the peanut butter cups talking, but Phil decided to play along. “Dare I say friend?”

Clint smiled wide before schooling his features back to their originally serious position. “Friend indeed. And might I say what a clever disguise, Little John? You like you work in a school.”

Breaking character for a moment, Phil raised an eyebrow. “Little John?”

Clint shrugged with one shoulder. “Yeah. He takes care of Robin.” And then back into their little charade. “Now come over here, Little John and help me guard this door from the armies of Prince John and his evilness, the sheriff.”

Coulson quickly shoved the heaviness and happiness at Clint’s answer to the back of his mind where he’d mull it over later. In the meantime, though, he leapt over to Clint’s side and faced the door. But the boy frowned deeply and Phil asked what was wrong.

“Little John has a wooden staff.” He thought for a moment. “What about the broom?”

“Perfect. I’ll go get it,” Phil supplied exiting the room quickly.

“Okay, but hurry. The armies are close by.”

Phil came back in with the broom in his hand, much to the relief of the mini Robin Hood still on top of the dresser.

“Ready?” Clint asked.

“Ready.”

And together they fought off the invisible forces of Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham who at one point were armed with laser guns and some were riding dinosaurs. But it was nothing compared to the inexhaustible number of trick arrows Barton Hood had in his quiver. The lasers were taken out by arrows that could produce mirrors, and the dinos met their end with arrows that contained meteors. Even Phil’s “staff” had rocket boosters for a while.

And when the battle was over, all of the prince’s loyalists taken down and the hero and his friend safely returned to Sherwood Forest, the two were lost in a fit of giggles that only ended when Clint began to rub his eyes with sleepy fists. 

“Okay, archer, it’s time for some shut eye,” Phil instructed, propping up the broom in the corner.

Setting the bow and quiver down with a nod on top of the dresser on which he was still standing, Clint took one look at Phil still turned to put up the broom and then, grinning, climbed on to the man’s back, clinging there piggyback style. Phil was surprised at the sudden weight but easily recovered and carried the boy over to his bed laughing.

“You know, Phil, they should really cancel school the day after Halloween,” the boy stated, clambering off and scooting towards the head of the bed. “You work there, right? You should make that happen.”

“Would if I could, bud,” the counselor responded with a grin. He held his hand out for Clint’s hearing aids and put them on the bedside table. And before he really knew what he was doing, he pulled the blankets up to Clint’s chin and watched closely as the boy wrapped up in them. His mind still wasn’t all caught up when he leaned in close and planted a quick peck on the boy’s temple. But the kid only smiled wider and whispered a “good night” – the words sounding slightly off since the boy couldn’t hear them.   

Phil shut the door suddenly exhausted. But a grin had spread across his features at the memory of being called Little John. That was how Clint saw him. Little John always had Robin’s back, took care of him, was his friend. And that was more than enough to bring a huge smile to Phil’s face.

But the happiness was soon replaced by the weight of what he’d done. He’d tucked the kid in, gave him a goodnight kiss. He couldn’t do that. _That_ was getting too involved. The boy was only temporary. In a few weeks Hill would have to move him to his new home and the two would have to say goodbye. Phil imagined that moment, what it would be like. He’d tell the kid he was proud of him and that he’d visit if he could. And Clint…

What would Clint do? How would he react?

The boy knew their arrangement was only temporary, but did he really grasp that that meant they would soon be separated?

 _Were Little John and Robin ever separated?_ the man wondered to himself.

And then there was what Fury had said to him the other week. Was Phil replacing his son with a new one? Coulson viciously shook his head at that. _No, Jude didn’t like Halloween._ It was a ridiculous point to make, but a point nonetheless. The boys were different; Clint was not Jude’s replacement. But he had been the best thing to wander into his life since the accident and Phil wasn’t sure that when the time came he would be willing to let him go.    


	10. Chapter 10

It was Saturday morning and Clint was in the living room watching cartoons, sitting on the floor with a bowl of Lucky Charms in his lap. On screen Elmer Fudd stalked the animated grass for “wabbits” and Daffy helped him along. Then Bugs Bunny showed up, chomping on a carrot, and inquired his motto. Clint laughed along as the rabbit outsmarted the duck, and the hunter blasted Daffy’s beak off. The closed captions flashed along the bottom of the screen to help the kid out, and Phil just took in the sight with a smile.

The boy was happy. It was shown all over his face and in his voice and in his stance. Clint was elated at the simplicity that had become his new norm. He wasn’t being hit on or starved, and he kept Phil’s whereabouts in the back of his mind just in case any of that changed. Even the nightmares had started to lessen some.     

But suddenly the boy’s continuous chuckling stopped and a puzzled look came over him.

“What is it?” Phil asked, stepping into the room.

Clint frowned a bit but pointed to the screen. “Daffy called Elmer Fudd Hawkeye.” A pause. “Trick used to call me that.”

Phil considered it a moment. The joke was that Elmer was holding a shotgun and yet couldn’t shoot the right target, Bugs, to save his soul. Daffy then sarcastically calls him Hawkeye after the character in _The Last of the Mohicans,_ who could pick off a mark with his rifle from great distances. Eyes like a Hawk…

Coulson could see where Trick Shot – he still needed to ask Maria what the kid’s real name was – would call Clint that; the boy had incredible eyesight and aim (if the way he was tossing bits of his cereal up in the air and catching them in his mouth was any indication, not to mention his skill with the baseball they’d played catch with).

“Did you like it when he called you that?” Phil asked, curious if the sudden lack of laughter had come just from the recognition of the name, or if the epithet was something he’d rather not have.

Clint grinned, a little lopsided. “Yeah. Because he’d call me that when him and Barn would get back in and I’d kept an eye out for anything that mighta caused ‘em trouble. It was his way of telling me I’d done a good job, I guess.” He shrugged one shoulder and went back to picking out the marshmallows from his cereal and tossing them into his mouth.     

Again another example of how the older boys had exploited the kid and his talent. Phil could tell that Clint had gotten a sense that he was being used, but neither one really wanted to face it.

As Clint tossed another few Lucky Charms into his mouth, Phil commented, “Well it’s certainly fitting.” And that got a wide grin from the boy.

 _Hawkeye,_ Phil mused as he exited the room, leaving Clint to his breakfast and animated wonderland. He sat down at the kitchen table to work on some more paperwork. It was getting close to Thanksgiving which meant SATs, college visits, and scholarships were right around the corner, which in turn meant the counselor was about to get really busy. Plus the holidays usually brought him a few more cases and students who needed guidance. The holidays were tough… for everyone.

Next month it would be a year since the accident. It would be the first time in ten years that Audrey didn’t play in the city symphony’s holiday concert; it would be the first time in ten years he didn’t hear her rehearsing the pieces for hours on end. It would be the first year Jude didn’t write a letter to Santa.

He wondered briefly if Clint would want to do that, but gave up on the notion that Clint still believed in the man in the red suit. Three years in a boys’ home and coming into that from a low-income, domestic abuse situation would pretty easily kill the idea of Christmas Magic. Still, Phil had already begun to mull over what to get the kid for Christmas. It needed to be special, something entirely fitting to him…

He shook his head deciding that he’d think of something.

 _Hawkeye_ , he grinned to himself as he started filling out forms and records once more.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: seizures

Phil opened his still sleep-sticky eyes, blinked a few times, and then focused on the clock beside his bed. It was three-thirty in the morning. Groaning, he rolled back over and tried to go to sleep. But something didn’t feel right. The air was…wrong.

He’d never be sure how he heard it, he just did. But far off in the distance he heard the squeaking of bedsprings in rapid secession. Thinking it might be another nightmare, Phil tossed off the blankets and shot out of bed. He opened Clint’s door to find the light from the window illuminating a sight that would haunt him for years.

Clint was convulsing, his whole tiny body shaking with the seizure he was currently suffering. Coulson rushed to the bed and carefully scooped up the child, lying him gently on the floor. He quickly grabbed the kid’s pillow to cushion his head, and then proceeded to roll him onto his side. He briefly praised the thick folders of emergency aid directions he’d had to learn before he became a social worker for teaching him how to handle this situation. But it did little to prepare him for the hell that was waiting for the seizure to end. He’d done all he could for the boy and now had to sit back and ride it out.

A few moments and some liquidly vomit later, the boy’s body settled, going limp on the floor. Phil cleaned him up and then sat next to him, stroking his hair and monitoring his breathing. After what felt like years, Clint came to with a shaky, “Phil?”

Knowing the kid’s hearing aids were out, Coulson just placed a sturdy hand at the base of the back of Clint’s neck and rubbed his thumb in circles there. The kid fell asleep easily, his whole body exhausted from the ordeal. Phil stood up, went back to his room, and threw on a pair of pants and a hoodie before returning to Clint and picking him up, one arm around the boy’s shoulders and the other supporting him from below. Clint moaned a little before settling his head into the side of Phil’s neck. Grabbing his keys from the rack by the door, Coulson carefully laid Clint in the backseat of the car and then drove off to the emergency room.

 

Even at four in the morning the place was a mad house. Phil sat in a plastic chair with Clint beside him and filled out as much paperwork as he could. Being his temporary put the boy on his insurance, so that went smoothly enough, but when it came to medical history, Phil had to rely on his memory of Clint’s file back at the house. Clint had woken up a few times only to cuddle back into Phil’s side and doze off again. He was still moaning some and his skin felt a little warm.

Finally, they were called back around five o’ clock, and after a brief run down of events, Clint was taken for an MRI and to have some blood work done. Phil stayed beside him as much as he could, helping the kid put on the gown for the MRI and trying to comfort him when the needle for the blood work was jabbed into his thin arm. After another hour or so, they met with a doctor to discuss some of the findings.

“You said a head trauma is what caused his hearing loss?” she asked, her voice slightly accented, Middle Eastern.

“Yes. He was a domestic case,” Phil supplied, holding Clint closely as the boy sat on his lap and leaned his head against Coulson’s chest. His eyes were closed and his breathing even, indicating he was asleep again.

“Well it’s very possible that the seizure was caused by residual damage from the incident. The MRI showed some inflammation around one the already damaged areas on the sides of his head. Did anything happen that could have aggravated it?”

Coulson thought for a moment but came up empty. He shook his head, careful not disturb the boy leaning against him.

The doctor frowned. “The inflammation could have been caused by pressure being applied to the area. Does that help?”

Again Coulson shook his head but then added hesitantly. “He is prone to nightmares. They can get pretty violent too, cause him to thrash around.”

“Any furniture that he could have hit?”

“A small bed side table.”

“Well that would do it, especially if he caught the corner. We’ll keep an eye out for a bruise during our observation period.”

“And what’s that?” Phil inquired a little worried. 

“We’re going to keep him for twenty-four hours to make sure there are no more incidents.” She added after a glance at Coulson’s face. “Yes, you can stay with him.”

They put Clint in a room and began hooking him up to some machines. He was still wearing the hospital gown that was too big for him. It swallowed him up and the color of it made him look even paler than he already was. Coupled with the IV line in his small hand to replace his fluids, and the wires of the monitor hooked up to his chest, Phil had never felt so helpless. The kid looked so tiny, so defeated.

Coulson called the school to inform them that neither counselor nor student would be there and then slumped back into a chair to wait.

He didn’t remember dozing off, but it was around ten when he came to. One look at Clint told him the boy hadn’t even opened his eyes. Phil moved closer to him, held his small hand, and stroked the skin of the back of his palm.

“What was it, Clint?” Phil whispered, his voice gruff with sleep but still gentle. “What scared you so badly?”

It was a little after noon when the boy finally awakened. Phil had never been so happy to see Clint’s blue-grey eyes.

“Phil?” he asked sleepily.

Having forgotten the kid’s hearing aids at home, the man just nodded in response. He watched as Clint slowly took in the surroundings, his eyes growing wide and fearful. Phil quickly remembered the boy’s file saying that he’d spent many times in the hospital because of his father. Not wanting the kid to panic, he scrambled for the pen from the medical chart on the end of the bed, and found a gum wrapper in his pocket. He scribbled out the words “you had a seizure” before handing the wrapper to Clint. It took him a while, way longer than usual, but the boy eventually got the message.

“Am I okay?” he asked in a heartbreakingly small voice.

Phil nodded, a tired smile coming to his face.

 

Clint faded in and out of sleep as the day and then night wore on, but the doctor said that sleepiness was a common result of a seizure, especially in a boy so young and small. When Clint was a little more conscious and alert, she asked him if he remembered what he was dreaming about. The boy shook his head and the doctor didn’t seem all that surprised. She then examined the small bruise that had shown up on his temple and prescribed him some anti-inflammatories for the swelling so it wouldn’t irritate his past head injury.

They checked out and headed home where Clint slept on the couch for the rest of the day. But by the evening he was really hungry and went shuffling, stuffing his aids into his ears, into the kitchen where he made a PB&J that he devoured. He was starting on his second one when a woman came in and asked him how he was feeling.

The boy was startled at her presence. His brows narrowed and his grip on the butter knife in his hand tightened.

“It’s okay, Clint,” she soothed, smartly keeping her distance. “Phil had a very important meeting he needed to go to. He told me to keep an eye on you until he came back.”

The boy still looked skeptical; his hand on the knife didn’t loosen.

“I’m Ann Ross; I live across the street.”

He thought the name over and decided it was true. He remembered her from previous encounters when Coulson would stop and have a quick chat with her from the yard. But his mind was still a little foggy and she had surprised him, so he figured that justified his earlier suspicion. His grip on the knife slackened slightly as he looked her over one last time and decided she was all right.

“Did he say what time he’d be back?” Clint inquired, dropping the knife in the sink and taking a bite of his second sandwich. He stayed on the opposite side of the kitchen from Ann Ross, but his shoulders loosened from their defensive stance.

Ann shook her head. “No. Just said he couldn’t miss this meeting and that he’d be back later.”

Clint frowned briefly at that. Phil normally didn’t put a meeting above the boy’s well being. But seeing as the kid had just been sleeping off the effects of the seizure on the couch, he figured Phil didn’t have to miss an important meeting on his account this time.  

Ann smiled gently. “But he should be getting here soon,” she comforted. “In the meantime, he told me that you had some homework to do… if you feel up to it.”

Clint smirked a little at the addendum on the end. He was tempted to milk his situation to get out of having to do his assignments, but abandoned that theory when he knew that Phil would only make him do it later. Better to knock some of it out while he was feeling somewhat awake.

He sat at the kitchen table across from Ann and sped through his math homework quickly then moved on to science. They were in their biology unit now and he had lost some interest; he wanted to get back to the chapters on electricity, magnetism, and gravity – subjects with a practical use.

Around eight, though, his eyes started to droop. Ann asked if he wanted to go to bed, but the boy shook his head, stating that he wanted to wait for Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.  
> Next week we find out where Phil's been. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and have a good week.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this your warning that this chapter gets kind of dark. There are mentions of violence, blood, and death, and also, language that Captain America would probably not approve of.

The idea had crept into Phil’s mind back at the hospital and had failed to leave him alone since. The kid had been terrified, so terrified that he’d lashed out enough to crack his head against the bedside table. He’d had nightmares before, but none of them had ever been anything like this. So what was it? What was the kid so damn afraid of?

It had come into his mind that perhaps there was only one person that could answer that besides Clint himself, who had shaken his head at the doctor’s inquiry concerning the content of his nightmare. There was only one other person that Phil could think of that would know what it was that could scare the boy that badly.

So he had driven the three and half hours to arrive where he was now: in a beat up chair facing a plane of bulletproof glass with a phone pressed to his ear. The adolescent sitting across from him lazily picked up his own receiver and with no humor in his voice and harsh tone asked, “You a lawyer? ‘Cause you’re kinda late.” His eyes darted around the facility, the bars, and the cuffs swinging from the overseeing officer’s belt.

“Case worker,” Phil correct, his eyes hardening at the attitude of the young man before him.

“Still too late then, mister.” The guy drummed his fingers on his opposing bicep where they rested. His orange jumpsuit had a smudge on it above the left breast and Phil had to resist the urge to ask if it was dried blood.

“Actually I’m here to talk about your brother.”

“Oh yeah?” he drawled. “What’d Clint do this time?”

Phil eyes narrowed at the insinuation that Clint would do anything that would put him in the same position as his brother. Barney was here for a reason, was decked in orange and under surveillance for a reason.

“He had a seizure. Wound up in the hospital.”

Barn just shrugged. “So? Waddya want me to do about it?”

Phil contemplated briefly if the bulletproof glass really would stop his fist from slamming into the adolescent’s face and knocking some sense into his stupid, selfish brain. “Well,” he continued, taking a breath to keep calm, “it was caused by him hitting his head in his sleep; he was having a pretty bad nightmare.”

Barney didn’t even raise a brow, just kept a level gaze and a neutral visage.

“I need to know what would cause that. What would scare him that badly?”

But this time Phil got a reaction. Barn laughed. It was bitter and sarcastic, with a hiss in it like metal deteriorating under acid. “Take your pick, mister! It ain’t like Clint got a short list to choose from.”

“I know that,” Phil spat back, and the sudden venom in his voice got the guy to shut up almost instantly. “That’s why I’m asking you. If _you_ had to pick one, what would be at the top of the list?”

Barn’s gaze hardened; his jaw tightened. He scoffed as if he finally believed he could be bothered to succumb to such a task. “Jackson Parker.”

“The kid who would run Clint up into the rafters and starve him?”

Barney raised a brow and a slow, sick grin bloomed on his face. “That all he told ya?”

But Phil was in no mood to play games. “Fill me in, then.” And when he was met with silence he ordered, “Tell. Me.”

The guy looked at him, sized him up some more, before blowing out a breath and giving in. “D’ya Clint was born two and a half months early? ‘S why he’s so small. They had ta leave him in the hospital to finish baking, you know?” He adjusted in his seat, lining up his eyes more with Phil. “Anyway it meant Clint was always so tiny, was sick all the time, cried easy. Dad fuckin’ hated it. Couldn’t stand to have a son so weak.” He leaned in, pointing a finger at Phil. “Jackson Parker, though, he loved it. It made Clint a real easy target.”

Anger didn’t stay out of Phil’s voice when he asked, “And you didn’t once try to help him?”

“Damn it, I did the best thing anyone ev’r could for the kid! I taught him the single most important thing a man can learn! And that’s that no one is goin’ to save ya.” He sat back, sniffing, running a dirty hand under his nose. “In this world, ya only got one person to look out for ya, and that _is_ ya. No one else gives a shit.”

Phil’s eyes were rock hard and ice cold. He let his hate be openly displayed for the delinquent before him to see. But the guy just scoffed it off and leaned back on his chair, slumping down it like a toddler with greasy hair, dirty fingernails, and a filthy mouth.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, mister,” Barney defended, “like I’m the bad guy, the Devil himself. ‘Cause ya wanna know somethin’? For years I took hits from Dad that were meant for Clint. Alright? I got scars from protecting that kid. So when we got dumped at that boys’ home I decided enough with that shit. Clint needed ta learn what I’d learned years ago. And ya know what else? He did. ‘Kay? He fuckin’ did.

“So, yeah, I let him get his ass kicked by Jackson. And, yeah, I stood by and watched as those damn blue eyes that everyone seems to love, begged me to come in and stop it. But I didn’t. And that’s when Clint wised up. He finally got it that no one was gonna save him, that it was up to him to make it stop.”

He scrubbed at his hair and then went on, “Now, Clint’s smart. Like really damn smart. Always has been. So it didn’t surprise me when he fig’red out that Jackson don’t like heights. So he’d run out to the barn and hide up in the hayloft to keep from Jackson pounding on him. But see, this pissed Jackson off, ‘cause not only had his new toy gotten away, it outsmarted him. ‘Kay? Made him look like a fool.”

“So Jackson retaliated by starving Clint,” Coulson interjected. “I’ve got that part.”

A sick smirk came to Barn’s face. “Yeah, but that’s all he told ya. And who am I to get in the way of my brother’s wishes, huh?”

Phil leaned in, his voice dropping in volume but intensifying, becoming stone. “Listen here, wiseass. You are going to tell me what happened between Clint and Jackson. All of it. And it better be the truth, because, son, I have the power to make your life more of a hell than it already is. You understand?”

To his credit, Barney didn’t even look remotely effected by the threat. But the kid just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What the hell,” he reasoned. He blew out a breath and shook his head slowly. “Like I said, Clint’s smart. So when Jackson started starvin’ him out, Clint started comin’ up with a way to slip outta the barn. There was a hatch, see. On the roof, where they used to slid in bales. Clint figured out that if he could get it open, he could go along the roof, slide down the drainage pipe on the side and slip past the door without Jackson ever noticin’ him. Problem was the hatch was rusted shut. So every day, like fuckin’ clockwork, Jackson would run Clint up into the rafters, and Clint would spend his time up there working that hatch.

“Now, Trick – did he mention Trick?”

Phil nodded.

“Well Trick worked it out that, since could Clint so easily get up there, he could serve as one hellova lookout. So in exchange for some tips on how to get the hatch open, Clint promised to keep an eye out for… you know, trouble… should Trick and I happen to be in the way of catching any. Even had a signal worked out for it. So this allowed Clint to work on the hatch some more at night, and for Trick and I to get off the place and find some fun.

“The guy was a con artist; let me tell ya. He could swindle a Playboy from a nun. To watch him work – ah! Mind-blowing.” He waved a hand, getting back on track. “Anyway, he figured out a way to secure Clint’s position as lookout even after he got the hatch open. Trick started picking up something for the kid to eat on our runs out. You shouldov seen Clint’s face the first time Trick handed him a Snickers; you’d da sworn it was Christmas.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed at the confirmation of something he’d always suspected: that the older boys had used Clint. His heart was threatening to break at that, his temper following suit.  

“But back to Jackson. Eventually Clint did get the latch to open and he scrambled past the door and got an actual plate at supper for the first time in almost a month. Well this pissed Jackson off even more. He’d been outsmarted again. And the guy, well, he wasn’t quite right; ya know? He snapped the necks on sparrows and did so with a grin. But he was also dumber than a box’a rocks, so it took him awhile to figure out how Clint was doing it. In fact, if I hadn’t of told him, I think he’d still be trying to figure it out today.”

“Wait,” Coulson commanded. “You… you told him?” Disbelief dripped from his tone. In an almost broken whisper he asked, “Why?”

Barn hung his head, shaking it loosely. “I was jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“Trick liked Clint. Genuinely liked him; you know. They both were smart. Witty, even. Tick saw potential in Clint, treated him like he was special or something. And me, well, I was just taking up space. So yeah, I told Jackson how Clint was sneaking out.

“He must’ve settled on a surprise attack ’cause all I know is that I woke up to Clint screaming as Jackson pulled him outta bed and started wailing on him on the floor. Clint managed to get up and started bolting for the front door, outta the house and into the barn. But Jackson was too angry. Right? Enraged. He followed Clint and this time he followed him up. Clint was halfway out the hatch, but Jackson grabbed him and threw him down.

“You ever watch someone get the living shit beat outta them?” he asked. Coulson shook his head.

Barney took in a breath, his eyes glazing over at the recollection of that night. “It was terrifying. Those planks up there were rough: splinters, rusty nails. God, there was so much blood. You could hear the sound of bones breaking through the wood.” He paused. “Clint’s screams got quieter.” His eyes suddenly flashed to Phil. “In that moment all I could think was, ‘What have I done?’.”

But Barn’s second of regret seemed to be over as the guy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the narrow counter, phone receiver hanging loosely in his hand. 

“I see you lookin’ at me like I’m the most disgusting thing you ever saw. But Clint ain’t some kinda angel. He ain’t no different than me or Trick, or Dad. And you know why? It’s cause of the switch.” He pointed to his head with his free hand. “And that night I saw it. The switch flipped.” He twitched his finger, moving it in a half circle. “Clint’s eyes got dark. Like _dark._ And I knew this was about to be over.

“Sure enough, Clint managed to get a knee up under Jackson and with all his remaining strength, he shoved that son of a bitch off of him. Jackson landed on his ass, confused as hell as to what had just happened. And when he went for Clint again, he kicked that bastard square in the chest.

“But see, Jackson wasn’t like Clint, didn’t have the same kind of constant awareness of his surroundings. And that kick knocked him off balance enough that Jackson… fell. All the way from the hayloft to the floor.” His voice dropped some, his gaze distant. “His skull had busted open.” A breath. “Dark blood and moonlight. And there above it all was Clint, dripping in his own blood, tears in his eyes as it dawned on him what he’d just done.”

Phil tried not to throw up. His hands were shaking and his breathing was unfaithful. His head hurt and he wanted out of this place immediately. But he forced himself to endure it. He needed to know everything that had happened.

“Anyway,” Barney went on, “by that point Carter was out there yelling at us to explain what happened. Trick went into full gear, telling the story with just enough bias so that Clint came out clean.

“Clint went to the hospital while Trick and I gave our testimonies to the cops that had been called out. Jackson didn’t have any family and Clint had acted out of self-defense, so they didn’t even take it to court. Just called a judge who gave ‘em a ruling then and there that there was no case and that Clint was innocent. To be honest, I think they all just wanted to keep it quiet so the boys’ house would still be open. I mean, ya gotta have some trash bin to toss unwanted kids, right?” He ended with an un-amused grin and leaned back. “So there ya have it. Clint killed Jackson and Trick and I got him off of it.” He blew out a breath, following it up with a disappearing smirk. “But could he return the favor? No.” And any hint of a smile was gone.

“No, no, Clint had to be a little bitch about it. Didn’t want to go up in the barn anymore ‘cause of what happened. So we lost our lookout and got pinched. And did he vouch for us? Absolutely not! He let us get taken in and now I’m here in this shithole and he’s off scott free. He didn’t have our backs and we got caught sneaking out, our whole joy ride recorded by some deadbeat cop. And after everything we did for him, he couldn’t even return the favor.” His eyes grew darker and Phil wondered for a moment if that switch was going to flip right then and there. “So you know what the first thing I’m gonna do when I get outta here is find him and settle the score. Put things the way they should be.”

An officer came up behind Barney and motioned for him to wrap it up since his time was over.

“I hope you got what you were lookin’ for, mister,” he stated in way of ending. “Oh, and if you ever come see me again, bring Clint along. Let him see what his selfishness did to me.” He slammed the phone back on the hook and the officer led the kid away.

Phil just sat there a minute trying to digest everything that had just happened.

Jackson Parker was dead. Clint had killed him. It was all in self-defense, of course; he didn’t blame Clint for it at all. But that didn’t mean that the little boy didn’t blame himself. And if that was the case, then Phil had an uphill climb to attack. If that was what the boy was fighting in his dreams…

Sighing, Phil stood up, knees still a little shaky, and headed for his car. He decided on the ride home that he would never tell Clint that he went and saw Barney, and that if the nightmare that triggered his seizure ever happened again, he’d get the kid to talk about it then, lying and saying that he had read about it in a file somewhere. But until that happened, Phil was putting all of this into a dusty back part of his mind where he would desperately try not to think about it until it was time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a little dark and heartbreaking.

He didn’t remember falling asleep at the kitchen table, but the familiar warm strength of Coulson’s hand on the back of his neck awoke him gently. The man smiled softly at the boy and asked if he was feeling better.  

“Yeah, I guess,” Clint answered. “Just tired.”

“I’ll say,” Phil replied, studying the boy carefully, looking him over for wear and tear. The bruise was there but it didn’t look irritated – the meds were helping with that – and he still had circles under his eyes, although they’d appeared to be diminishing.

After asking if Ann had gone home and receiving confirmation, Clint went to get ready for bed since he was still ungodly tired.

The first thing he noticed when he entered his room was that the bedside table was pulled away from the mattress another foot or so. He knew it was irrational, but he became scared then that, even though they had taken precautions, he would do something to hit his head again. It was real likely that he’d have another nightmare, right?

Phil found the boy stopped in the doorway of his room, his intense eyes glued to the interior.

“You okay?” the man asked,

Clint was frozen for a moment longer before nodding slowing. But head shaking replaced it and the kid looked up at Coulson. “I’m scared, Phil,” he whispered hoarsely. “What if it happens again?” 

Phil knelt down to Clint’s height and gently placed his hands on his shoulders, locking his gaze with the boy’s petrified blue-grey one. “It’s okay, Clint. The doctor kept you over night to make sure you were okay. And the meds are keeping the swelling down.”

“But the nightmare…” the kid’s sentence trailed off and his eyes looked misty with the threat of tears, rain coming to his storm-cloud eyes.

“What about it,” Phil coaxed, wondering if maybe the kid had lied when the doctor had asked if he remembered it.

“I – I don’t remember what it was,” the kid began, almost reading Phil’s mind, “but I know that I’ve had it before.”

Phil frowned.

“And if I’ve had it before, then it means I could have it again, and if I have it again then… this could happen again, and-”

“And I’ll be right here.” His face was serious as he held the boy’s broken gaze. “You don’t have to be afraid, Clint.”

The kid blinked a few times before barely breathing out, “Promise?”

Phil kept his eyes locked with Clint’s, but his mouth tilted into a deeper frown. “I thought you said promises don’t mean anything.”

The boy’s face broke into the smallest hint of a smile. “They do from you.”

Phil’s heart swelled at that. He finally had Clint’s trust; he’d proven that he would care about him no matter what. And so with as much sincerity as he could possibly shove into his voice, he responded, “Then I promise.”

Clint closed their distance and wrapped his arms around Phil’s neck in a tight hug that forced the rain in his eyes to fall. But Phil didn’t mind the salty drops against his neck as he clung to the boy.

After awhile Clint let go and made his way to bed. With his thin body all nestled up under the sheets, he asked, “How did your meeting go?”

It was the first time the boy saw a shadow cross Phil’s eyes that didn’t match any of the other dark spots in the man’s past. This covering was different. Whatever this meeting had been, it had shaken Phil to the core but in a new way. That concerned Clint. “Phil?”

But the man shook it off. “Just a- just a tough case. Don’t worry about it.”

The boy pinned the counselor with his eyes for moment, but slowly accepted the given answer. He nodded once in reception and then peeled his hearing aids out of his ears, habitually handing them to Phil who set them on the nightstand, now further away. Phil settled a hand on Clint’s reclined shoulder for a second before leaving the room, turning off the light and closing the door.

He fell asleep on the couch that night, an empty glass in his hand that had previously contained a shot of tequila. It had taken the little bit of alcohol to drown out the conversation he’d had with Barney Barton that was noisily replaying over and over again in Phil’s mind.

The kid had seen red, red so deep and dark it was black in the moonlight from the hayloft of a dilapidated barn. He’d been covered in his own red, his own sticky blood as it had been punched and beaten and scraped out of his skin. He’d been absolved of the deed by the law, but his mind had yet to clean out the red. The blame from his brother highlighted the boy’s guilt, added a sheen to the red. Red, red, red. The boy was dripping in it.

And none of it was his fault.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter is happier!!! And I'm sorry you have to wait a week for it.


	14. Chapter 14

As was tradition, the second weekend in November was dedicated to autumn and harvest. The town celebrated with farmers’ markets, turkey weigh-ins, and of course, the street fair. Vendors erected booths to sell all kinds of food, hobbyists and craftsmen set up elaborate displays of their year’s work, musicians took turns performing on stage, and cronies encouraged children to take out their pocket change and try for prizes in the penny arcade.

With a caramel apple on a stick in one hand and a bag of gummy worms in the other, Clint followed Phil through the fair, blue-grey eyes taking in the scene with curiosity, awe, and intensity. Coulson knew the sound of it all coming in at once through his hearing aids must’ve been overwhelming, so it didn’t surprise him when the boy reached up behind his ears to switch them off. Clint relied then on the sight of the busy street alive with red, gold, yellow, orange, and brown; the smell of the oil and grease combined with sticky sugar, cigarette smoke, and body odor; the feeling of the air, cool and crisp, biting at his skin. They looked at the various vendors’ offerings, pointed and awed over some, discreetly criticized others. But soon the apple was gone and the gummy worms slipped into Clint’s pants pocket. The coins had come out and the boy was ready to try his luck at the set up of bop-a-frog, ring toss, and – most definitely – darts.

Phil left him to it, staying on the edge of the penny arcade section, sitting down and munching away at some roasted chestnuts. Clint was within his visual range, but the little bit of freedom was enough to make the kid bubble up with pride. Phil trusted him. That was the bottom line.

He watched others play first, learn their tactics and mentally correct their failings. When it was his turn, he’d lay down his change, receive his stuffed frog, or plastic rings, or tattered darts, and take aim accordingly. Sadly, he didn’t have the strength needed to launch the frog far enough to get it to land on the appropriate target, nor the height to achieve the center ring in darts. But ring toss was a lot like skipping rocks and he had the talent to do that. It took him a few tries, and some exchanged words with the attendant once the boy caught on that the game was rigged, plus a trip to Phil to beg for one more dollar.

“Please, Phil. I know I can get it; I just need another shot at it. I know how it’s rigged now. I just need one more chance.”

And of course those big blue-grey eyes were damn near impossible to say no to. So with a sigh, Coulson fished out the dollar and gave it to the boy who was practically beaming.

Putting the dollar on the counter and glaring at the now annoyed attendant, Clint was handed three more plastic rings. He took a step back, sized up the bottles in the tray behind the counter, calculated the needed force, arch, and spin – taking into account the rigged spacing of the bottles – and released the first ring. It sank nicely onto the neck of the bottle, as did the second and third.

“Okay, kid, you’ve had your fun,” the attendant grumbled, begrudgingly motioning to the plethora of stuffed animals behind and above him. “Take your pick.”

With a face-splitting grin, the little blonde boy pointed to the one on the far left and clutched it close once in his hands. He made his way over to Phil and proudly presented his prize. “Look what I won, Phil!”

And Phil couldn’t keep the smile off his face even if he wanted to. There in Clint’s small hands was a stuffed hawk. It was russet colored, rounded: plush feather wings tucked in to create a ball. Big plastic, golden eyes sat in its head and it had a stuffed yellow beak that was sewn in a way that it would open and close.

“Hawkeye?” Phil asked.

“Mmm hmm,” Clint hummed, almost musically as he clutched his prize to his chest.

They left soon after, grabbing a slice of pumpkin pie on the way out that they shared. Clint had never had it before, though, so Phil let him have most of it.

On the care ride home, Clint sat in the back seat, his plush hawk in his lap, and a smile still on his face. But it gently faded as the trip went on and Phil just had to ask what the boy was thinking.

“I don’t know. Maybe that now I have something to keep a watch out for me. You know, in case I have another seizure.” He paused a moment and then shook his head. “I know it doesn’t work that way, but…”

“But it’s still nice to know someone, something, has your back,” Phil finished for him.

“Yeah,” the kid agreed. A sarcastic smirk lit his face. “But don’t worry, Phil. He won’t be replacing you.” A beat. “Not completely anyway.”

And the counselor laughed.

Maybe it was silly, but the man suddenly felt better about it too. A Hawkeye to look out for his Hawkeye. What more could he want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have my own little stuffed hawk. There may or may not be a picture of it on my Tumblr blog: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zombiesocks378


	15. Chapter 15

The first snow flurries had tinged the air with fluffy cold white, turning all the children’s minds towards their winter break with thoughts of snowmen and shiny presents, fancy dinners and pageants commemorating the First Noel, snowball fights and hot cocoa. Phil had even gotten a little distracted from his daily dose of paperwork to watch the flakes dance around on the breeze, waltzing lazily downward and settling on the ground where they bid their good-byes and slowly melted into watery tears. The ground wasn’t cold enough for the snow to be sticking, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hanging around the thoughts of every student, teacher, and faculty member at the school. Even Principal Fury had been caught distractedly whistling _The Christmas Song_ while he ran off a copy of some form.

Yes, winter break and the inclusive holidays were only two and a half weeks away.

Phil grinned to himself as he thought back to Thanksgiving evening when he’d tried to cook a turkey and instead they had PB&Js and chocolate milk while Clint kept glancing over at the now empty fire extinguisher and the mountain of foam that lined the oven and blackened mass of burn meat in its midst. The kid was trying so hard not to laugh. He didn’t want Phil to think he was making fun of him, but the sight just couldn’t help but tickle him. In any case, the boy got the bigger half of the wishbone when they’d dug it out of the charred mess. Phil wasn’t sure what the kid had wished for, but he didn’t want to linger on that too much, afraid that he’d might guess correctly and have to face the consequences of dealing with a fact that he’d been steadily having to remind himself more and more.

Clint was temporary.

There wasn’t any way around that.

Well, there was. But Phil wasn’t going to deny the kid a family that had better capabilities of raising him the way he deserved. Because that boy deserved a family that could facilitate his hearing loss, that could give him enough stability to make friends, that could… cook a turkey for Thanksgiving and not have to buy a new fire extinguisher when they were done.

But Hill had yet to call with news of such a family’s subsistence, and Phil was starting to wonder if they even existed.

The thought was kind of dark and a little selfish, so he switched gears and buckled down to do some more paperwork. But once again he found his gaze on the falling snow and all that it signified.

Figuring that this could possibly be the first Christmas in a long time that Clint wouldn’t have to worry about being hit or bullied or starved, Phil wanted to make it as absolutely best as he could. He’d been silently praying every night that it would snow on Christmas eve so that the kid could have a white Christmas, that they could go outside and build a snowman and have a snowball fight, and then come in for hot chocolate. He wanted to have a proper holiday dinner. Okay, maybe not with turkey and all the trimmings, but something considerably more substantial than peanut butter and jelly. Maybe spaghetti. Yeah, Christmas spaghetti.

And then there was the gift. Phil wanted to get Clint something… meaningful. Something that the boy would always remember coming from him. He’d thought about a bow, but after talking to Triplet he’d found out that Clint would have to get stronger and be older before he could have any lessons. The Treehouse only took twelve-year-olds and up. Besides, Clint just didn’t have the size or the strength yet to pull any draw weight.

The kid already had a copy of _The Adventures of Robin Hood_. He had checked it out of the library enough times that Phil had just broken down and bought him his own copy so he didn’t have to face another comment from the librarian about hogging certain stories.

He’d asked around the staff, searching for suggestions. Someone had said Legos, and although Clint _did_ like to build things, it seemed like kind of a copout answer.

He just didn’t know what to get the kid.

He glanced at his desk; the picture of his wife and son was up and upon seeing it he sighed. Audrey had been the best gift-giver he’d ever known. She always knew exactly what to get no matter the person, relation, or occasion. And Jude, Jude had been easy. He’d made a list every year back in October of what he wanted for Christmas. Clint though… Clint had had to muster up all his strength just to ask for a warmer coat. He just wasn’t used to asking for things. His whole life he’d either been denied what he wanted (and in some cases needed) or had had it taken away from him. What do you get a kid that has grown up used to having nothing?

A knock on his office door jerked him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, come on it,” he mumbled, rubbing at his tired eyes.

Miss Hand smiled as she entered, a piece of paper in her hand. “Hey, Phil,” she greeted, coming to stand over by his desk.

“Victoria,” he answered, standing up. “How are you?”

“Well, thanks. Yourself?”

“Oh the usual for this time of year.” He grinned lightly at the end and she responded with a gentle laugh. But they both went silent after that, prompting Phil to ask if she needed something.

Hand took in a breath and shook her head, smile still plastered on her face. “I just wanted to let you know something, Phil.”

“And what’s that?” He was a little wary since he had no idea what she would say.

Victoria’s grin never wavered. She handed Phil the piece of paper she had brought with her. “That you did it.” As soon as he had it in his hand she exited his office, leaving him alone with a piece of ruled notebook paper with scribbled handwriting covering its wide blue lines. The chicken scratch writing was familiar, as was the slight smear of the letters from where the author’s left hand had dragged over the graphite. The spelling was atrocious, but what more could be expected of a dyslexic eight-year-old boy?

Phil sat back in his desk chair and read over the paper, his heart constricting at the end of each sentence.  

 

_My Most Important Person_

_by Clint Barton_

_My most important person is Phil. He is important to me becuz he taks care of me and maks me food. He lets me eat as much as I wunt and for as long as I wunt. He dosn’t hit me when I do some thing wrong eder. Phil reads with me befor I go to bed. We read Robin Hood storys a lot becuz they are my favrit. Phil promised me he wood prove to me that he woodn’t hurt me and I beleev him. That is why he is my most important person._

Phil’s chest felt too tight for his swelling heart. He _had_ done it. He’d gotten the boy to open up and trust someone. And it was him!

But one of these days he was going to have to give up the kid and surrender him to another family. And Clint would have to earn _their_ trust.

Because, again, Clint was only temporary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now.   
> Will Phil keep Clint? Will he figure out what to get him for Christmas? Will Clint's spelling improve? (The answer to that is most likely not, seeing as Fraction has him later phoning Bobbi with a spelling question.)   
> Stay tuned to find out.


	16. Chapter 16

“Clint!” Phil hollered up the stairs.

“What?” Came the yelled back reply.

“Can you unload the dishwasher and take out the trash, please?”

“Yeah.” And although the answer a little unenthusiastic, sure enough a few minutes later socked feet came rattling down the stairs and into the kitchen. Phil was cooking dinner: baked chicken and mac and cheese. Clint was kneeling on the counter so he could reach the upper cabinet shelves to put away the cups. Phil made sure the boy was steadily up there before getting a can of pineapple from the pantry. Before he wouldn’t have left the kitchen while Clint was up on the counter, but now he was almost as certain as the kid was that he wouldn’t fall.

Clint had finished the dishes and was moving onto the trash when Phil’s phone rang. Clint handed it to Phil, turning around to take the trash to the can outside, pulling on his pair of snow boots as he went.  

Phil thanked the boy before sliding his finger over the screen an answering the incoming call. “Hey, Maria.”

“Hi, Phil. How’s it going?”

“Oh, not complaining,” he answered, sandwiching the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he stirred the mac and cheese. “What’s up?”

“Well some good news actually.”

At her words Phil stopped stirring.

“I’ve found a foster family that’s more than happy to take Barton.”

He froze.

Phil had suspected that he would be overjoyed at the news, but instead he found himself suddenly uncomfortable, like a heavy rock was sitting awkwardly in his chest. He swallowed once, twice, and then stumbled out, “Th-that’s great…, Maria. Really, yeah, really great.” But the stone sensation only worsened.

“Yeah. Look, I know you’ve grown kind of fond of the kid-”

Understatement.

“and that he’s kind of become attached to you-”

Bigger understatement.

“but this family has handled deaf kids before; they know exactly what to do. And they have a boy there only a year older than Clint and a little girl as well. Both foster children. Their track record is clean, only incidents being medical and related to the previous kids’ conditions. They’re a solid family, Phil, and they will treat Clint like gold.”

It sounded too close to a sales pitch for comfort, but Phil found himself nodding anyway. Maria was right; this family would take care of Clint and give him everything he needed and more.

“That sounds wonderful,” he distantly heard himself saying.

“It is. And the best part is he could be there by Christmas. That way he’d have all break to adjust and could start school with the rest of the kids in January. It’s smooth sailing, Phil. All you have to do is start the transfer paperwork.”

 _And tell Clint_ , he added to himself. He wasn’t sure how that conversation was going to go.

“Hey, listen, I’ll let you go so you two can get back to whatever it is you’re doing and I’ll stop by your office tomorrow so we can start to get this squared away. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

“Take care, Phil.”

“You too.”

He pulled the metal lid off of the can of pineapple just as Clint came back inside.

“Dinner’s just about ready. Go wash your hands,” he ordered the kid who rushed to the bathroom in hungry anticipation of food. The boy then sat down at the table and waited for Phil to set his plate in front of him. He began chowing down, barely waiting for Phil to take his own seat and start on his own meal. But about halfway through, Clint could practically feel the tension coming from the other side of the table.

Picking at his pineapple with a fork, he asked, “What’s wrong, Phil?”

And dammit if the kid wasn’t perceptive. Putting his fork down and absently playing with the condensation dripping down his glass, Phil started carefully, “That was Maria on the phone.”

“Yeah?” It was extremely hesitant.

“She…” He cleared his throat, preparing himself to just get to the point. “She found a foster home for you.”

Clint’s features were unreadable, except for his big blue-grey eyes, which seemed to slowly comprehend the true meaning of Phil’s words.

“You’ll be there by Christmas.”

Silence stretched throughout the kitchen for a long time before Clint scooted his plate away, mumbling that he was full, and headed quickly for his room.

Phil stared down at his plate, then let his eyes wander to Clint’s half-eaten meal. Never had the kid left that much food on his plate. Deciding he’d wrap it up in case the kid wanted it later, Phil pushed away from the table to go have the conversation with Clint that he’d been dreading for weeks.

The rock in his chest grew heavier as he climbed the stairs and heard soft, muffled sobs from Clint’s room. Bracing himself for the sight, he rapped twice on the door before entering. Clint was on his bed, curled up in a tight ball, face down in his pillow. As he came closer, Phil could see dark spots on the fabric where tears had fallen.

“Clint,” he whispered gently. He stretched out a hand to touch the boy’s shoulder, but the kid shifted away. He hadn’t moved away from Phil’s touch in months. _Not good._ “Clint, bud,” he tried again.

“Go away, Phil.”

That was new. And it damn near broke Phil’s heart. But they needed to talk about this.

“Clint,” he started gently, easing himself onto the end of the bed.

“Leave me alone.” The kid curled up tighter.

Phil sighed heavily. “I can’t do that, kid.”

“Sure you can,” the boy spat back, lifting his tear stained face from the pillow and glaring Coulson down. “You’re going to in a week.”

“Hey, now that’s not fair.” His voice rose a little more than he wanted it to, but the boy didn’t seem affected by it. “Clint, you knew this was temporary. Okay? We both knew that.”

Clint brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them and laying his chin on top. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t hope it would change.” His voice was tiny, vulnerable.

“Ah, Clint…” But he couldn’t finish because deep down, Phil had kind of hoped it would change too. But that wasn’t reality; it wasn’t possible and it wasn’t fair.

“Why don’t you want me, Phil?” And the confusion and the anger that played across the kid’s face was enough to bring Phil to his knees. But it was the hurt in his eyes that nearly drove him there. He had told the kid he’d never hurt him and yet here he was in pain. And without ever raising a hand to him, Phil had joined the list of all the others that had hurt him, abandoned him.

“Clint, you know this isn’t about that. This is about a family with the means and the knowhow to take care of you and your condition, a family with kids your own age, a family with experience in cases like yours. Clint, they’ll take care of you the way you should be taken care of.”

“But they won’t be you!” The kid argued. And all Phil could think of was that piece of paper with a paragraph explaining all the reasons Phil meant the world to Clint. And while he knew this new family would more than meet the same criteria, Phil had done it first.

Dammit, he wanted to be selfish. He wanted to pick up Clint, hold him close and tell him that he was right, that they wouldn’t be him and that he was going to stay here. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t deny the kid the chance to have a family that could respond to his needs, that could take care of him on a more facilitating level. 

But instead he avoided the kid’s prying eyes and responded with, “You’re right; they won’t be me.” He stood up. “They’ll be better.” He left the room, pausing at the door for a moment to say, “I’ll wrap up the rest of your dinner and put it in the fridge in case you want it later.” He closed the door, leaving the curled up boy alone on the bed.

Clint fell back against his pillow and cried some more before viciously wiping away the tears, his brother’s voice replaying in his head, harshly telling him that only babies cry. But the callousness of Barn’s words was replaced by the ache of Phil’s. _They’ll be better…_

Turning over on his bed the kid sobbed quietly, “How could anyone be better than you, Phil?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I am truly sorry.  
> But do not be alarmed. Those Feels you are experiencing are normal.


	17. Chapter 17

The week that followed the news was frosty. The air outside had gotten much colder as if the season was reflecting the feelings of the boy and the counselor. Clint was distant from Phil and would only talk when directly asked a question. Phil was tired of having to reach out far beyond his limits to connect with the kid. They both understood and accepted what was going to happen, but neither of them wanted it. Because even though Clint had been giving Phil the cold shoulder, he wanted nothing more than to stay with the man that had gotten him to trust again. And even though he had steeled his emotions and focused only on the logistics of transferring Clint over, Phil wanted nothing more than to keep the boy that had reopened his damaged heart.

 

Maria pulled up into the driveway a little after nine in the morning. It had been arranged that she would take Clint to his new family since she was still the lead on his case. She knocked twice on the door before Phil answered it. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, pulling a hoodie over his head as he greeted her.

“He ready?” she asked after the man offered no other small talk.

“Finishing up,” was the curt reply. “Coffee?”

Maria nodded as she walked further into the house and could practically feel the ice that had crept into the relationship between the two. It was sad, really. But they both knew from the start that this day would come. Still, the event just shouldn’t have been this despondent.  

“Is he upstairs?” Maria asked as Phil handed her a mug.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” She took a sip. “Well I’m going to see if he needs help.” It was an obvious escape and she knew it, but that didn’t change her path. Careful not to spill her coffee, Maria climbed the steps and knocked briefly on Clint’s half-open door.

“Hey,” she greeted.

“Hey,” he answered quietly. He was sitting on his bed, feet dangling off the edge. His backpack was next to him, fuller this time versus when he’d first brought it. The black strap had been re-stitched.        

“All ready to go?”

It took him a while but the kid nodded. And the sight of him moping there so small and miserable coupled with Phil’s apparent melancholy nearly had Hill reeling. So sitting down next to the kid, she started, “I know what it’s like, you know. To have to move around a lot.”

“You do?” the kid mumbled, interested but trying – and failing – not to be as he sat up. 

“Yeah,” she went on, sipping some more coffee from her mug. “My dad was in the army so we moved around from base to base. I don’t think we stayed anywhere for more than a year.” Another sip. “It was tough, always having to make new friends and then having to say good-bye to them a few months later.”

The kid lowered his head so his chin rested in his hand, elbow propped on his knee.  

“But you want to know what always helped me?” Hill went on.

“What?”

“I would write them. All the friends that I’d made while at every base. Once a week I would write them a letter and send it out. And then everyday I would check the mailbox to see who I got a letter from.”

It was lie since she didn’t complete the story. The truth was that although she would write friends, and some would write back, the letters eventually stopped. Friends moved on and so did she. But that wasn’t what the kid needed to hear. Instead she took another swallow of coffee and continued, “You know you can do that too.”

“You mean write Phil?”

“Yeah. I’m sure he’d stay in touch.”

And that part she figured to be true. If Phil’s moping was any indication that he would miss the boy as much as the kid would miss him. The letters may not have worked out for her as she was dragged across the country throughout her childhood. But for Clint and Phil it might be a solution.

In any case the boy had perked up a little bit, enough to make asking if he was ready to leave slightly more bearable. The kid responded with a frown and a nod, hopping off the bed, backpack in hand.

“But there’s something I gotta do first,” he altered.

Maria told him to meet her downstairs and in roughly five minutes he did. She stood by the door and watched as the kid came down the stairs and both he and Phil had to face the moment they’d both been dreading.

“Ready?” Phil inquired. And the question went beyond that of asking if the kid had everything packed. He was asking if the boy was ready to leave, ready to move on in his life, to face the next chapter without him.

“I think so.” But Clint’s eyes were betraying his apprehension. And one look at Phil and the build up of frost vanished, replaced only by the hole each of them would cause in the other once the kid left.

Dropping his backpack and getting a running start, Clint rushed over to Phil who caught the kid in his open arms and scooped him up in a tight hug. The boy clung to Phil, arms around his neck, face turned in, soggy at the eyes. Phil gripped Clint, just holding him and taking in the feeling of his soft blonde hair. They stayed like that for a while until, around the lump in his throat, Phil instructed, “Be good, Clint.”

“I’ll try.” And if there was the slightest hint of a smirk in his tone, then only Phil could understand it.

Slowly he set the kid down and they peeled away from each other. Clint picked up his backpack and started for Maria and the door. He was almost to it when Phil called out, “Take care, Hawkeye.”

Clint looked back over his shoulder, a grin on his face that just reached his eyes. “You too, Phil.” He paused a second, glancing out to Maria who was now waiting in the car. “I’ll write to you.”

Phil grinned at that, sensing that it was Hill’s suggestion. But he found himself nodding anyway and promising to write back.

“Bye, Phil.”

“Bye, Clint.”

And with a sad half-smile, the boy closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, guys.   
> Next week I'll post the last three chapters.   
> Thanks for reading, Kudos-ing, bookmarking, and commenting!


	18. Chapter 18

The house was far too quiet. It had only been a few hours, but Phil couldn’t stand it. He’d tried watching some TV to distract himself, but the closed captions had been left on and they reminded him of the kid. Frustrated, he’d turned off the device, grabbed his snow boots and jacket, and went outside for a walk. But as he passed the park, his mind drifted to the hours he’d spent there with Clint and suddenly it too was too painful. As was the diner when he stopped in for a cup of coffee and Sandy had asked about the boy. He knew the school wouldn’t be any better and was glad that he didn’t have to face it until the new year.

The house was just as quiet and empty as when he’d left.

Phil collapsed onto the couch in the living room, flung his arm oven his eyes, and just stayed there. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to do anything except lie still and not think about anything.

Eventually he fell asleep.

In his subconscious it was summer. The air was warm and bright with sunshine. The trees were full of deep green leaves and singing birds. Dust motes lazily swam in lines created from the windowpanes. Childish laughter could be heard from outside. And there, sitting in the brilliance of the sun at the opposite end of the couch was Audrey.

Her hair was pulled back loosely, the rest draped over her shoulders in a brunette cascade. Her legs were tucked up under her, her elbow propped up on the armrest, chin in her hand as she read. She was dressed in a navy blue T-shirt that Phil distantly recognized as once being his, and khaki shorts. She looked happy and must’ve sensed Phil’s gaze on her as she looked up and smiled at him. “Hey there, sleepy head,” she greeted.

“Audrey?” If the disbelief in his voice was strange to her in this dreamscape, she didn’t let on.

“Rise and shine, Phil,” she practically sang as she sat up more and laid a hand on his knee.

The sudden burst of laughter from outside by the window had Audrey standing up, leaning against the frame and looking out over the front yard. “You should come see this, Phil.”

He didn’t remember moving but suddenly he was right beside her, staring out at the sight she was chuckling along with. Jude was running, a water gun in his hands, his head turned backwards so he could shoot at whoever was behind him. The spray of water was a straight line until it hit its target: another young boy, this one with dirty blonde hair and blue-grey eyes.

Clint.

He had a water balloon in his small hand and with a smile lobbed it at Jude. It hit the boy in the chest, soaking him instantly. They were laughing and smiling and the sun was causing the droplets of water hanging in their hair to shimmer like diamonds.

Phil felt Audrey’s hand reach for his and intertwine their fingers.

“Aren’t our boys perfect?”

Phil knew he should argue that one of them wasn’t theirs. But he found he couldn’t; he couldn’t shatter the content grin on Audrey’s face with that fact. So instead he held her hand tighter. And the more he thought about it, the truer it became. All of it: the perfection, the imagery, the sensation of Audrey’s warm hand clasped in his, the idea that both boys were his.

He opened his eyes to a quiet empty house, dim in the grey of winter. The sun had set and the house seemed so cold. Phil blinked a few times, trying to slide back into the wholeness of the dream, but couldn’t seem to grasp it. With a sigh he pushed himself off the couch and went into autopilot to make himself dinner.

The silence continued to follow him as he got ready for bed.

He opened the door to his room, lazily not bothering to flip on the light switch. He scrubbed a hand down his face as he sat on the end of his bed, removing his shoes before flopping back, arms sprawled to his sides. But as his left hand landed, the texture of the duvet was replaced with something that crackled. He looked over and found a piece of paper under the cloth feet of a stuffed hawk. Hawkeye…

Phil snatched up the paper, taking a second to glance at the stuffed bird and its golden eyes. He turned on the lamp by the bed, focusing on the paper as familiar handwriting came into view.

_Now you’ll have sumone to look out for you_

Phil shook his head, a pale grin tugging at his lips. He grabbed the bird, looked over its plush feathers and cloth beak; the grin on Clint’s face when he’d won it budded in his mind at the sight.

Clutching the plush animal tightly to his chest, Phil closed his eyes and fell asleep, his grip on the bird attempting to hold his damaged heart together.

The dream came back; the sun lit up the room and Audrey’s hand was wrapped around his.

“Aren’t our boys perfect?” she asked with her wide contented smile.

Phil tightened his hand around hers, knowing the answer. “Absolutely.”

And this time when he opened his eyes, he knew the answer as well.


	19. Chapter 19

Maria Hill was admittedly a little surprised that her phone was ringing so early on a Saturday, but upon seeing who it was, answered it with a slight grin. “Already asking to visit him, Phil?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that.”

At the tone in his voice, Hill sat up a little straighter at her dinning room chair, abandoning her spoon in her bowl of cereal and her news updates on her digital tablet. “Phil?”

“Has anyone adopted him yet, Maria?”

“Phil, it’s only been three days. Kid’s probably not even unpacked yet.”

“Good. It’ll make moving him back in easier.”

There it was. Maria had been wondering if she’d have to deal with this call ever since leaving his house. But she hadn’t anticipated how hard it was going to be to tell Phil to level out, to take some time and really think it over. He was having withdrawals. That was all.

“Phil, have you thought this through all the way?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? You’ll have to take care of him, Phil. Every day. For years. Until he’s eighteen.”

“I know.”

“Feed him, clothe him, make sure he does his homework.”

“I _know_ , Maria.”

“Take care of him when he’s sick.”

“Yes, I know all of that, Maria. What I’m trying to tell you is that I _want_ to do it.”

And at that Hill couldn’t help but smile. Phil had heart, a tender, loving heart. And that boy had exhumed it from the grave Coulson had buried it a year ago.

She’d been right. They’d needed each other.                     

“Okay, Phil. I’ll pull the paperwork.” She couldn’t keep the smile out of her tone no matter how hard she tried.

“Thank you. Oh and, Maria. Could you try – I mean, I know it won’t be officially legal by then, but can you try and give me the papers before Tuesday. They don’t have to be signed or completed I just…”

“I understand, Phil,” she answered as she looked at the calendar to confirm what day Tuesday was. Her smile stayed on as she assured him she’d have as many of the papers in his hands by then.

“Thank you, Maria.”

“You’re welcome, Phil.” And as soon as her phone was on the table, she began pulling the paperwork, glad at the turn her day had taken.

 

Phil had called ahead, had even rehearsed some of what he was going to say. But his heart was still thumping into his ribs with enough force to leave an imprint. He pulled up to the address matching the one Hill had given him. It was a nice two story, butter yellow house, with a white roof and matching shutters. But there were no big trees in the yard and for selfish reasons, he felt like that was a victory.

He got out of the car and stood before the front door for a moment before taking in a breath and knocking twice. There was rustling inside the house and then a kind-looking, middle-aged woman, with greying brown hair and worn green eyes, opened the door.

“Philip Coulson,” she guessed.

“Yes, ma’am. But please, call me Phil.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the quick pattering of feet behind her drew her attention. The woman scooped up a young girl into her arms and balanced the child on her hip before returning to Phil.

“He’s in the kitchen,” was all she tossed back as she took the child with her and left the door open for him to come in.

Phil dried off his boots on the rug, hung his coat on the rack by the door, but kept his purple scarf loosely draped around his neck. His hands clutched a neatly wrapped package in blue paper with a purple ribbon securing it. Slowly he came into the kitchen where he could smell the delicious aromas of a proper Christmas dinner – one without a blackened turkey and replacement PB&J sandwiches.  

He heard the woman, Mrs. Lewis, inform Clint that he had a visitor. The boy was at the table, mixing something with a large spoon, when he turned around. His blue-grey eyes widened in surprise and the kid practically leapt out of his chair.

“Phil!” he squealed, running up to the man.

Phil caught the charging boy and picked him up in a tight hug, savoring the feeling of the kid’s arms around his neck and realizing fully just how much he’d missed it.

Coulson set the kid down after a moment but stayed kneeled at his height. “I almost forgot to give you this,” he said, handing Clint the package he carried.

The boy took it, asking, “Can I open it?”

“Of course.”

Clint tore into the paper with excitement clear and resonating on his features. With the wrapping stripped off, the boy turned over his present and read the title aloud. “Treasure Island.”

“It was one of my favorite books as a kid,” Coulson explained. “I thought maybe you’d enjoy it.”

Clint beamed a smile. He went in for another hug and murmured, “Thanks, Phil.” Pulling back he asked, “And did you get my present?”

“I sure did. But you know you didn’t have to do that, right?”

The kid shrugged. “I wanted someone left there to look after you since I couldn’t be.”

“But you didn’t have to,” Phil reiterated, this time placing his hands on the book next to Clint’s. He opened the cover and reveled the papers Maria had rushed and nearly threatened to get. Clint eyed them a little before cautiously picking them up. Phil could see the exact moment he recognized what they meant and the smile that followed could have lit up the sky with the force of a thousand suns.

“You mean…”

Phil nodded. “If you want.”

“Of course I want it, Phil!” And he ran into the man’s arms again. “Of course I want it!”

Phil held Clint tightly, fighting back the tears that were damming up in his eyes. His hand carefully braced the boy’s head, fingers gently brushing over soft blonde.

“Oh,” Mrs. Lewis hummed, dabbing at her eyes. “I told myself not to cry.” But her words cracked a little on the end. She regained her composure quickly and asked, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Phil nodded and thanked her, still not letting go of his boy. Clint, for his part, didn’t seem to mind at all.

 

With bellies full and good-byes exchanged, Phil and Clint piled into the car for the two-hour trip home. The kid fell asleep on the way, his head propped up in his hand, eyes – now closed – glued to the window. Snow fell gently from the sky and danced around in loose drifts on the road.

Clint woke up as Phil pulled into the driveway, sensing the end of the trip. And when they went inside, Phil couldn’t help but think the house seemed far less cold and empty.

Phil held out his hand for the kid’s hearing aids as Clint climbed into bed, pulling the familiar covers around him, clutching Hawkeye. Phil gently placed his hand on the side of Clint’s head and then pulled it back, whispering a good night that the boy couldn’t hear. He was ready to turn out the light when Clint called out, “Thanks, Phil.”

Phil turned to face the kid, smile wide on his face. He waved a good night to him and wished a Merry Christmas. And whether the phrase was familiar enough to read it on his lips or if somehow the kid just knew, he answered back, “Merry Christmas to you too.”

Phil closed the door and made it to his own room with the feeling that for the first time in a while, he’d get a decent night’s sleep. He pulled Audrey’s pillow to his chest, breathed in her scent, and felt his body relax.

“You were right,” he whispered to her somewhere in the universe. And even though he received no answer, he was sure that she heard.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All together now! AWW!!!


	20. Chapter 20

Six months later

The sun spilled in from the diner windows, illuminating dancing dust motes and pollen in the air. Clint sat across from Phil in the booth, cheeseburger almost devoured and milk shake remnants melting in the glass. Phil dared to try and snatch a fry from Clint’s plate and was greeted with a glare that was only softened by the boy’s blue-grey eyes.  

“You know you could just ask,” the boy responded with a note of sarcasm as he handed Phil his sought after French fry. 

“But I know that you’d say no, so…” Phil teased, popping the gift in his mouth.

Clint smirked. “Someday I might surprise you and say yes.”

“That’ll be the day.”

Clint just grinned a little wider and went back to his meal. They tossed around a few more remarks, shared a couple of laughs. And once his plate was clean, Clint excused himself to go to the bathroom.  

Sandy stopped by, asking how the food was and dropping off the check. She watched Clint scamper off and couldn’t stop herself from remarking to Phil, “He’s gotten so big.”

“I know. He turns nine today.”

“Nine!” She smiled gently, a glint coming to her eyes. “Seems like just yesterday he was eight.”

Phil rolled his eyes but grinned at her joke anyway. Sandy looked him over for a moment before sighing. “You seem happier, Phil.”

His grin widened at the corners. “I am. And I think he is too.”

Sandy dismissed herself as a customer raised his mug for a coffee refill that she willingly obliged. 

Clint came back as Phil dropped the needed bills onto the table plus some extra for a tip. “Ready to go?”

The boy nodded.

 

Phil had made a cake the night before, and once back home they cut into it. It was somewhat lopsided, and the purple icing had slid a little, but it tasted great. Clint ended up with a purple ring around his mouth from licking the frosting off and Phil couldn’t help but chuckle at it. He knew this was probably the first birthday in a long time that the kid had gotten to celebrate.

With their pieces consumed, Phil brought up the next order of business. “Okay, bud. Ready for your present?”

With a crooked grin the kid replied, “You need to ask?”

Phil shook his head and then came back from the living room with a wrapped up box. It was long, about four inches high, and concealed with the same blue paper and purple ribbon that his Christmas present had been wrapped in.

Clint tore into it with excitement and vigor. His eyes lit up as he saw what it was: a Super Soaker. The water gun was huge and as advertised could hold up to half a gallon of water. Clint had it out of the packaging and under the sink, filling up the tank, in no time flat.

Phil leaned in and whispered, “And there may just be a cooler full of water balloons outside too.” A pause. “Loser does dishes.” 

Clint’s eyes narrowed in mock challenge. “You’re on.”

And both of them were out the door.

 

Later that evening, still ringing water from his shirt, Phil did the dishes. He replayed the afternoon in his head and decided that it had been perfect. Dreamlike.

With a contented smile he wrapped up the purple cake, turned off the kitchen light, and made his way upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to make the most of this moment, go listen to Coldplay's "Fix You." You will cry. 
> 
> That's all for this one, folks. Part two will go up next week and keep the same posting schedule. 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who read, Kudos-ed, commented, and bookmarked. You guys are the best!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to point out that I have very little functioning knowledge of social work. I'm aware that paperwork plays a role and that it can take a long time for it to get processed. But for the sake of this story, just roll with things, okay?


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